Rongyi Laohu

2003-07-13T14:45:00.000Z

Gotta Keep Moving

I have been looking at Leylop's archives to discover that it is difficult to access blogspot sites in China. As I am soon off to China for a year, I have decided to move. I have a new name, a new url - it's all exciting. You can now find me at aiya.blog-city.com. Hope to see you there.

2003-05-07T19:53:00.000Z

I am thinking of suspending my blog for a couple of months. I am approaching my exams at the moment and I know I will spend the whole revision period blogging rather than revising. And despite me being a mere first year, I have much revision to do. Email me your blog urls because I would love to have a look And I shall be back in the summer, counting down to my year in China. That hopefully I shall still be going on!

2003-04-21T11:49:00.000Z

Family Affairs

My aunt and uncle flew in this morning from Australia. They have come to stay for the week because it is my gran's 80th birthday on Monday, and we are to have a bit of a 'do' on Saturday, to celebrate. It appears that there is a genetic disorder on my mother's side of the family which requires many high pitched pretend arguments with other members of the family. 'I'll pay', 'No, I'll pay', 'Don't be ridiculous, I'll pay', 'No, I said it was going to be my treat', etc etc. On and on, they go about everything and anything.

So I was placing my bets as to how long it would be before I got woken up with such an argument. My bets were, as soon as they walked up the stairs to dump their suitcases. The subject matter would be the fact that my parents were putting them in their room rather than the box room. And the outcome? 9am, I hear high pitched squeals. 'We can't sleep in your room', 'Of course you can, it's easier all round', 'Don't be silly, we'll sleep in the other room', 'But it's better that you are there, you have room to put all your cases'. This was my alarm call for now there would be no chance of getting back to sleep.

I'm only worried that if this disorder affects my gran, my aunt and mum, is their any hope for me?

2003-04-20T16:01:00.000Z

This morning I looked at Anne's Letters to Rob. This is a blog of letters to her cousin who took his own life a year ago. I have been meaning to have a look for ages but couldn't bring myself to click on the link on her page. I am a bit sensitive on the subject of suicide and a simple click of the mouse would force me to think. To think about Sam. To think about myself.

Camden is a strange place, full of people from all walks of life, all the time. It's always busy, busy, busy, punks, goths, rockers, indie kids, rastas, townies, tourists with eyes glued to their maps trying to find their way through the busy market, trying not to stare too much at the big mohicans and all those piercings. But amongst all these crowds of people, you will notice a select few who are weaving in and out of everyone with a sense of purpose. They are not looking around at everything and everyone. They are not getting lost. They are not suddenly stopping in the middle of the pavement to pop into a shop. They are trying to get somewhere particular. These people are the regulars of Camden.

Sam was one of these regulars, just as I am. I was not good friends with him but he was a friend, one of the familiar faces amongst the crowd of tourists getting in our way. He was loud and funny and enthusiastic about everything, flyering outside Camden tube, drinking in the Dublin Castle, passing out on someone's floor. But his big passion was music and with his bass guitar and singing voice, he seemed to be fulfilling his potential. His band were doing increasingly well especially with the Camden crowd. Their audiences were growing, gigs were good and word was getting around.

3rd February 2001 - I had been at work, my Saturday job, at the sports centre. At the end of the day, I always had a shower at work, got changed and went straight out. Katie's dad would sometimes pick me up on the way to dropping her off at the station, as he did on this day. I got into the car, said 'hello' to her and her dad, and he drove off. Katie is a loud, bubbly person and yet today, she was silent. I waited until we got to Edgware tube before I asked her what was wrong. Yesterday, Sam hung himself.

When I heard her words, the first thing I could think about was to comfort Katie. Understandably so for she knew Sam far better than me. We got the tube into camden and went to the Mixer. The Mixer has an atmosphere about it, one of the few regulars pubs in London. On this day, we walked in and the atmosphere was very different. It was not bustly and cheerful with drinks going full flow with private jokes and dirty jokes and laughter and mingling. It was very strange. Huge pregnant pauses producing a vacuum, so that no one could breathe until someone said something, thus piercing the bubble and providing some relief. Everyone's faces a flat, monotonous landscape of flesh, giving nothing away until they look away and an expression of fighting back tears could be seen. And sometimes, someone would come into the pub who had not heard the news and so they had to be told.

When someone takes their own life, the first thought to cross the mind is Why? Not necessarily, why would anyone take their life. But why did they? Talented, loved by so many people, could I have helped, why didn't I know. But I know why. For years I wanted to die. I knew that my family loved me, it wasn't that. I hated the fact of my very existence and wanted it to end, my body cremated and nothing left but dust to show for me. I took an overdose of various pills and potions that were in our medicine cabinet. I spent the night vomiting violently. A few days of feeling weak and then I was fine and well and very much still existing and this angered me. A couple of years later and I realized that I could not end my life because it would hurt my family too much. I wasn't happy about this but became resigned to it. And, although I was very happy in myself by the time that Sam died, this was a confirming moment for me.

The funeral was on the 13th February. I turned up to school in the morning as did the other four who were going to the funeral. Someone in my politics class asked 'Why are you dressed so smart?' I'm going to a funeral. Embarassment followed and a little bit of feeling uncomfortable on her part. 'Why is Katie so smart?' She's going to the funeral too. Bewilderment follows as she realizes that I was not going to a funeral of a grandparent or great aunt as first thought, but five of us must be going to the funeral of a friend. An 18 year old friend.

There's something very wrong about driving off from school, to a funeral. So many rites of passage to experience before death. The chapel was packed, far too many people squashed up per pew, people sitting on the floor, standing at the front. All people who loved this boy and his boundless enthusiasm for life, who killed himself because he could not go on any longer and could see no hope. It was an unconventional funeral for an unconventional person. Mostly consisting of music, nothing more suitable really, the last piece - All Apologies by Nirvana, chosen by Sam. But the most moving, tear jerking time was when his parents spoke. His mother said that Sam had made many decisions that she hadn't agreed with at first but had come to realize that he was right. Maybe one day she will realize this about his decision to end his life.

2003-04-16T14:51:00.000Z

Happy Bank Holiday

Good Friday. And it's sunny. Who'd have thought it - on a bank holiday? My mum's outside doing some gardenning as the birds sing a cheery tune, my brother rushed out as he does everything, rushing here and there,a 'hello' every now and then. Dad's down at the church, doing the service in front of a few pensioners who could be bothered to turn up to acknowledge one of the most important days of the christian calender, and a few little children who are undoubtedly bombarding him with questions of 'why is it called Good Friday'. And everyone else is outside, enjoying the rare sunshine and knowing us English, probably a few complaining that it's too hot, apart from those who are still asleep. Apart from me, who is inside, on the computer. I don't feel like joining in with the happy bank holiday feeling. My throat hurts and I am stuck at home. So, this year I shall prefer to be an observer.

Good Friday 2002 - I was in Sydney. It was my last weekend there before I went off travelling up the east coast of Australia and I couldn't wait to leave. Not because I didn't like Sydney - I love the city and I had a fantastic time. It seems to encapsulate all the finer points of European cities, all brought together into one. So many nice places to amble, Circular Quay, Darling Harbour, the Botanical Gardens, the many beaches. And that's what you do there, amble. There's no rushing about, no missions to get from A to B in the shortest time possible, even rush hour on the Metro is easily bearable. And, although it does get cold in the winter, for the most part, the weather is great. Not stifling hot and humid like in Queensland but sunny and bright and bouncy. Everything and everyone looks fresh in that light and it lightens and relaxes everyone's moods, so much more easy going, happy go lucky. And it's clean, everywhere so clean and fresh and new. It's a pleasure to be there and pleasure to maintain the cleanliness of the place.

All the homelessness, all the crime, all the scumminess, all the sleaziness, all the drug pushers, all the heroin addicts, all the prostitution that you would expect to find in a city are compacted into one small area of the city, Kings cross. My home for three months. Indeed, ask any backpacker where they stayed in Sydney and their's will probably be the same answer. This is where all the budget hostels are, the cheapest of the cheap. But my home was not a hostel, it was an apartment on Victoria Road. And the apartment was lovely. Two bedrooms, fully furnished, all mod cons etc etc. But the real selling point - the view from the balcony. It was spectacular, of the city skyline, all the skyrise buildings, centrepoint, Wooloomooloo below and beyond, the opera house and the harbour bridge.

I mentioned that it was a two bedroom apartment. Now this was the only drawback for there were never fewer than five of us living there and for much of the time, there was nine of us, with four extra bodies spending their days there. Nine of us were friends from back home, all living together on the other side of the world. It was three months of craziness and it was a lot of fun with no clutches on reality whatsoever. Our days, spent sleeping, smoking cheap Aussie cigarettes that come in packs of 40 (Longbeach) and lots of weed bought from either one of three cafes in Kings Cross, drinking, swimming in the pool and sweating in the sauna. It was a world with no resemblance to normality. We woke when other people were coming home from school or work. Frequently I'd walk down to the local greasy spoon, Krave, in my pyjamas and eat. Or go to the shop across the road to buy ice cream and other supplies. And our nights spent watching movie after movie after movie and drinking in the Buddha Bar, the 24hr bar at the end of our road.

We seemed to live our lives in the flat, never leaving. But we did leave and see some of Sydney's finer parts. Big flat expeditions to the aquarium, Taronga Zoo, to the top of Centrepoint, to the many beaches. We never made it to Manly beach though. We never woke up early enough to make it worth the ferry crossing journey.

It wasn't all pure laziness. We did work. Well, when I was there, just two of us worked. Louise became her job and consequently we never saw her, working by day, drinking with work people come evening and sleeping at night. I did not want a job that would weigh so heavily on my mind. I just needed some money but wanted to have a laugh doing it. I started working at the Bourbon and Beefsteak in Kings cross, waitressing. I hated it, the waitress who was training me was a patronising bitch and after four shifts of blister producing work, I quit. But I had no money and every backpacker in Australia seemed also to be in Sydney looking for jobs and it was not looking good.

So, I took advantage of the area I was living in and got a waitressing job in one of the many strip clubs that line Darlinghurst Road, Playbirds International. I later moved to The World Famous Love Machine. It was an easy job, trying to sell as many drinks as possible. I got paid according to the number of drinks I sold, no standard wage, and I got tips. And the strip club will only keep you on if you sell loads of drinks because all they want is money, money, money. But the drinks are all non-alcoholic, non-alcoholic beer, non-alcoholic wine but did we tell people this? I don't think so. It is illegal to sell alcohol if the establishment is linked to a brothel. But the drinks taste disgusting so it is a real mission to sell lots and I had to get them to buy me drinks and give me tips. It doesn't take long to pick up the tricks of the trade. I had 'strip club mode', the way I behaved as soon as I walked through that neon lit doorway. Flirtatious, world owning, pushy behaviour, not like me at all. And soon they are buying me the most expensive drinks, giving me their cigarettes, handing over a big tip and I'm getting them a prostitute to go upstairs with.

The people who went to these clubs were varied. From the young group of backpackers, to the married couple wanting to spice up their sex life, to the old sleazy man. We had them all. One man came in every day without fail. He would come in at nine when the shows start, sit at the back, gradually move his way to the front and then go to McDonalds for half hour to get a coffee. Then he would return and do it all again. He never bought a drink, he never had a prostitute. Some of them were nice, some not so nice, many wandering hands, mostly harmless. People would think I was a prostitute even though I looked and dressed very different from the girls. They would ask me how much and sometimes push me against the wall and try to touch me. I never felt threatenned though, there were too many people who worked there who were around me, to let anything happen. The one time I felt the situation was getting out of hand I punched the owner of the wandering hands. After stumbling back several feet, he left, somewhat bemused.

The girls who worked there were mostly lovely. There were two prostitutes who I did not like. My presence seemed to threaten them, as if I was going to take some business away from them. No chance of that. But the rest were so nice. I didn't speak to the strippers much, simply because after their set, they'd move straight on to the next club. But the prostitutes were always around so I chatted to them quite a bit. But the longer I worked there, the more I discovered of their stories, why they were there and what went on in the clubs. One girl was kicked out of her home when she was thirteen. Some people looked after her and got her onto smack. When she was addicted, they took her to the club to work. She was now eighteen and had been a prostitute for five years. She desperately wanted to do something else. But there was nowhere else that she could work. For any job, even the most simple, there would always be someone who had more education than her or more job experience. You may be against prostitution and think what these girls are doing is terrible. And you'd be right. But these girls were stuck, for whatever reason, maybe because of one bad decision, made very young. Yes, many of them were there to support some form of addiction. I had to look after a girl who had overdosed on smack and collapsed as I was serving a drink. But they are still people and deserve respect. And so few people would give them that basic human respect. The men who worked at the club, the barman, the managers, the bouncers wouldn't and I walked in on countless arguments between staff. And the average person walking down the street very rarely would.

And this is what I was doing on Good Friday last year. Working. On one of the holiest days of the christian calender, the good vicar's daughter that I am, was working in one of the sleaziest strip clubs in the whole of Australia.

Work was good for a while. I'd go in, take a little bottle of vodka and get pissed as I served drinks and have a laugh. When I wasn't working, I'd walk down Darlinghurst Road with my friends, and I knew everyone. All the strippers, the bouncers, the prostitutes, the regulars, the family of the owners. Everyone. But soon it became a headfuck and there came a point where I just couldn't go in anymore so I quit. The flat, though a lot of fun, was also stressful at times. It was always filthy and there was never time for alone time. I need time for private thought and reflection and I was deprived this. And I had itchy feet. I wanted to be travelling, it was time. So, I booked a bus ticket and soon i was travelling the east coast, after three months of laughs and new experiences in Sydney.

2003-04-14T13:50:00.000Z

Discharge Advice Following Tonillectomy

To ensure a quick and full recovery:

Eat crunchy foods such as toast, cereals, crisps, fruit and vegetables in order to keep the area clean.

Stay indoors for 3-5 days, then gradually return to your normal activities.

Do not eat ice cream, sweets, fizzy drinks.

Do not drink alcohol.

Do not smoke, and avoid smokey atmospheres (smoking will make your throat sore, cause infections and may make your throat bleed).

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm seeing a few problems in this advice. I have just had a considerable proportion of my mouth chopped out and I am being told that I am not allowed soothing food substances such as ice cream. Oh, but a nice crunchy apple will just slip down no problem. No alcohol? I reckon vodka would do me the world of good. Not only would it calm the pain but I'm sure it would keep it all nice and clean. No smoking? OK, fair enough, that would hurt but Marlboro Medium have always been my cure to any ailment. This is not going to be fun, especially as I am back home at the moment with my mum who won't let me out of the house ever again, just in case i pick up an infection.

2003-04-09T19:54:00.000Z

Nothing to See

On Monday I took out my tongue piercing in order to go to my pre-tonsillectomy appointment at the hospital. I tried to see if it would go back in afterwards but alas (alack, eheu), it would not. And now my mouth is feeling very empty. I keep going to play with it when I am bored but instead look like a twat as my tongue becomes entangled around my mouth. It's like saying goodbye to an old friend - perhaps not. Popped into th pub last night, after having dinner with some old school friends. Mike asked me if I would get it re pierced. My answer? Not unless they do it under the general anaesthetic when my tonsils are being ripped out.

I got my tongue pierced one year and three weeks ago. I was walking down the road at Bondi Junction, in Sydney, with Katie. We had been having a pampering, haircut, tan, eyebrows waxed, nice lunch sort of day in order to escape from our mental flat full of people. For some random and unknown reason, I turned around to Katie and said, 'I could get my tongue pierced now if I wanted'. Why I said this I do not know. The fact was I could get it done if I wanted. The real question was, did I want to. Her response was,'That's a good idea, I'll get mine done too'.

Five minutes later, we were in a salon with anaesthetic cream on our tongues. The cream tasted horrible. I know this because I ate most of it and, as a result, my tongue was far from numb. The tip of my tongue, numb as you like. The bit that was pierced, could feel it perfectly. I had to lie on a couch whilst a woman with no piercings (always slightly worrying) but a Doctor (that's reassuring) brandished a needle. My mouth was kept open with a big plastic thing, not dissimilar from a Hannibul Lector mask but with the reverse effect of holding my mouth open rather than closed. Plastic tweezer type things held onto my tongue as the woman spent about five minutes grappling around. It was not easy and it hurt like hell. When she managed to place the piercing in my tongue, she dropped the ball down my throat. I had to sit up and cough it up. Blood was splattering into my hand. if you have been drinking in the last 24 hours, your blood is thinner. I had a lot of blood. This was not a pleasant experience.

My tongue swelled up so much that nothing else could fit in my mouth. I lived off McDonalds milkshakes (strawberry flavour) for four days. Not out of a straw, with a spoon. When I could eat solids, it took two hours to eat a meal and then I just gave up because I was bored. After a week it was fine. But, even knowing that my tongue piercing experience was a particularly bad one (Katie had not had nearly such a bad time), I shall not be doing it again. It was my first piercing. I went straight into the deep end with tongue rather than the traditional ears. It was my last piercing. And now it is no more, there is nothing left to see.

2003-04-09T15:09:00.000Z

Aaaargh! My template has gone mental and I know not the reason why. This is because I am completely computer illiterate. Bugger.

2003-04-07T16:29:00.000Z

Rock A Bye Baby

I went to the pub on Saturday afternoon with some of the blokes. Claire, one of the regulars brought her six month old baby, Molly, down. It made me laugh how the presence of a baby can completely change the atmosphere of a place. All the blokes were sitting around talking about tits and football and other stereotypical male talk whilst in a pub (they really were). When Molly arrived, they were reduced to talking in slow, high pitched tones - 'Hello! Who's a smiley little thing? Yes you are, aren't you?' etc etc.

It was nice (and amusing) to see that side of some of my friends. One of which is the crudest person I have ever met, another is renowned for his rage, another is barred from the pub after he threw glasses at one of the barmen, all do copious amounts of Charlie. And all were transformed into little bundles of joy, idiots trying to make the baby smile whilst Molly lay oblivious to their intent. I strongly believe that a baby can cure the foulest of moods. Well, a baby that you can hand back when it starts to cry, needs nappy changing....

2003-04-04T17:25:00.000Z

Rage

Today, at work, I watched as a man overtook another in the fast lane of the swimming pool. In doing so, he slightly clipped him going past. This is a normal event. However, the slower man was not happy and squared up to the bloke and began to lay in to him. It seems that nowadays there is lane ettiquette rage.

It seems strange that in a country where everyone is so stereotypically repressed that England is also famous for its hooliganism and pub brawls. On Wednesday, Louise rang Mark when we were in the pub saying how she had been watching the football in the pub where there was one Turkish bloke. Her and her friends had to pretty much surround him in order to protect him from getting hit. When he left the pub, he was beaten up. It seems so pointless to do so. Obviously football raises high tensions. I get upset when England or Arsenal lose but in this case we had won.

It seems crazy that people can't express some more of that British self-control - even in the swimming pool.

2003-04-03T21:55:00.000Z

Lonely From Amersham

After I finished work at 3pm yesterday, I went into Camden to meet up with Beth and Amy. We had a few drinks in the Tup and caught up on news while I kept an eye on the football at all times. After the match, I popped into the Mixer for a couple of drinks to share my joy of our mighty victory with Mike and Mark, who I knew would be in there. I got the last tube back to Amersham and, for the first time ever, was actually pleased that the Met line is so shit and bumpy because it meant that I managed to stay awake for the entire journey, only almost falling off my seat on occasions.

When I walked back home from the station, something struck me that strikes everytime I walk around Amersham after around 10pm - it is so dead. I walked along the road and there was nothing, no one else there, no noise, nothing. I guess this is normal for a lot of places but I am so used to Camden and Leeds. Leeds is just studentville so nighttime is the the peak time for goings-on. And in Camden there are always people coming and going, selling 'hash weed, hash weed' or offering 'minicab, minicab' (no, I don't want a minicab, do you really still need to ask?). But last night I felt as though I was the last person left walking through deserted streets of abandonned cars and closed up houses. Each step was so loud that it seemed to echo around the globe. It is very surreal, almost Truman Show-esque, feeling so seperate from everyone else. It felt as though I was on a stage with no one else and the whole thing was just a soliloquy. I was out there whilst everyone else was tucked up and hidden. Every now and then, a purr of a car in the distance or a scurry of a cat would bring me back to reality.

But then, I guess Amersham is just full of old people - I could hardly expect anything else at that time of night.

2003-04-01T15:12:00.000Z

Let's Go, Let's Go, I'm Bored, Let's Go

Back home for the holidays means back to doing some paid work to help wipe out some of that student debt I have accumulated. And work for me means lifeguarding. This is an easy job that is reasonably paid (for crappy holiday job), fairly flexible, and, as long as I have my NPLQ up to date, a job that I can come back to each holiday.

But, it is the most boring job ever. No, it really really is. It is a mind-numbing, longing for next fag break, clock-watching affair. The main drift of the job is standing on poolside watching people swimming. Not exactly exciting. There are only a few ways to keep yourself amused:

See how many different languages you are able to count in when counting the number of bathers in the pool. I can do four - French, Latin, Chinese and Fijian. Doing this as loudly as possible scares small children, making it more entertaining.

Swing your whistle around as fast as possible. If you swing it over enthusiastically and it falls in the pool (as it did today), this provides ten more minutes of amusment as you try and fish it out with the net.

Pretend the reaching poles are rifles and try to shoot the other lifeguards. Sound effects are welcomed.

Oh, it's all so much fun. But just because it's boring doesn't mean you can let your mind wander. This is the main problem. It is just so boring and yet you have to stay alert at all times. A negligent lifeguard can not only be fired but also be sued vast quantities of money - no thank you.

So what elso do we have to do? Prevent accidents from occuring in the first place. This is where your whistle comes in. 'No diving', 'No bombing', 'Don't climb on that wall', 'No running', 'No pushing', etc etc kind of gets dull too when you are shouting it over and over again. Boredom can lead to two possibilities here: becoming complacent and thinking that they can dive into the shallow end if they lack that much common sense and if they hurt themselves, they bloody well deserve it. Or, shouting at everyone for every tiny thing they do wrong just because I have nothing better to do. If someone pisses me off for whatever reason - for being mouthy, for having a stupid haircut...I have no qualms in shouting at them repeatedly. I will shout at couples for 'heavy petting' and that generally embarasses them. It keeps me amused. Sometimes we wish for someone to drown just for want of something to do. Although, after my last rescue (my second ever) of a man having an epileptic fit, I think I'm happier without casualties.

Lifeguarding is the worst job when nursing a hangover. Strictly speaking, a lifeguard should not be hungover when on duty but that doesn't work. The humidity combined with screaming girls and abusive pre-pubescant boys is not a whole lot of fun.

Then there is the cleaning which is just minging. The changing rooms become filthy very quickly, especially the ladies due to all the hair. I have also discovered that people are disgusting and seem quite happy to leave used sanitary towels or tampons on the floor for us to pick up. Vile. I try and hide in the enclosed area outside, smoking (despite the warning of hydrochloric acid and the 'no naked flames' signs) and see how much cleaning I can avoid.

Working times are all a bit crazy too. If you do an early, you start at 5.45am and lates are until around 11pm. Why do people voluntarily go swimming at such a stupid time in the morning. Daytime shifts are not too bad apart from catching alll the rush times. And evenings involve cleaning everything when people really should be in the pub rather than having an energetic swim.

But I love it really. Oh, it's not so bad. But the next time you are at a swimming pool and watch the lifeguard swinging their whistle around whilst counting loudly in foreign languages, spare them a thought. Because they are bloody bored and actually had to learn about vice grips, support tows and spinal lift-outs for the privilege.

2003-03-31T12:24:00.000Z

This is not the Heaviest Suitcase in the World - This is Just a Tribute

By Friday morning I had my room all packed up and ready to go. Stereo, printer, bedspread etc etc were jammed into my wardrobe, padlocked tight. Openning the door of the wardrobe is at risk of one's own life as the entire contents is bound to fall out. Everything else was in my suitcase and my bag. Now my suitcase would have been of a reasonable weight had it not had twelve big, chunky books and two files in it. This made it the heaviest suitcase in the world. My bag contained my laptop and all my CDs making it also a little on the heavy side.

Carrying these from my building to the bus stop was hard enough even though I did have help. Despite the case being on wheels, I was unable to drag it more than 5 metres at a time before dropping it. Once I managed to get to Kings Cross, I then had to manouvre it around the tube station and then change at Baker Street before I was able to get home. Throughout the trip I was laughing hysterically to myself. If I didn't laugh I would have probably cried. But I have decided that London people are not as self-interested as is often portrayed. Each time I got to a set of stairs, it did not take a long time of me struggling and looking extremely pathetic before someone came to the rescue. And finally I managed to get home. Now, my shoulders and arms are feeling the consequences.

2003-03-30T19:23:00.000Z

Fat Girls and Feeders

If you watched this programme, ignore this as, I'm quite sure you won't want to think about it again. Having watching this, I felt sick. This programme, on Thursday evening, was all about Fat Admirers, ie men who like their women large. This in itself is fine. In fact, being a little on the chunky side, I find this reassuring - there's hope for me yet. But this just took it too far. Apparently there is a culture building up of people known as feeders. These people want to make their women as large as possible in the quickest time possible. This is to fulfil their fantasies. When the wife of one man lost 125Ib, he was forced to divorce her (obviously, duh). He married another woman who he encouraged to put on weight. The woman had quite clearly grown up with low self esteem and so was particulaly vulnerable. She had grown to weigh 59 stone. She was so large, she could not walk. She could barely get out of bed. The husband had to look after her (or not as it seems to be) by giving her bed baths and such like. She had skin which was over an inch thick and not dissimilar from the skin of an elephant. It was hideous and, more to the point, extremely unhealthy. These women are not going to live long. And yet their husbands continue to do it to them. And once bed bound, there is very little choice in the matter. Some men pump liquid fat into them and put bulking up powders into their food. What sort of life is this, just to keep the perverted fantasy alive.

2003-03-30T18:30:00.000Z

Oh baby When the Lights Go Out...

The other day I experienced my second Bodington Hall power cut, and the third one of 2003, having not had one for years. During the Christmas holidays, there was one in Camden. I went out for breakfast (best breakkie in town) at Solos and was introduced to the idea of candlelit breakfasts. Don't think this idea will catch on but would help to make the chat up line, 'I want to take you out for breakfast', slightly less sleazy (only slightly less). This powercut was one that was so typically Camden-like, in that it didn't effect everything or everywhere - a completely half arsed attempt. In Solos, you could eat eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast but could not eat sausages, hash browns, chips. Why did some things work and not others? And also, how come they were able to cook bacon but not sausages? Are there special ways of cooking sausages? I just don't know. Also, the club downstairs had all electricity working fine. The Mixer, next door was funtioning almost as normal (as normal as the Mixer gets) and was doing so until much later in the evening when it was complete blackout time.

The powercut at Bod followed a sunny day. Sunshine followed by light deprivation seems to induce a slight insanity. 1200 students were running around the vacinity, causing mayhem. Some in shopping trolleys brandishing light sabres, some dancing around outside to 'banging music', some setting alight to stuff and creating mini (or not so mini) fires next to buildings, and some thoughtfully throwing firecrackers at unsuspecting passers-by.

2003-03-26T18:38:00.003Z

I am currently trying to clear my room up in order to go home for Easter. There are a few problems involved. I have to go home on the train. This in itself is fine. However, I have to clear my room out completely. Oh dear. I am now trying to fit everything into the lockable section of my wardrobe with limted success. My room now looks as though a bomb has hit it - no really it does. And I am still wondering quite how I am going to carry everything I need at home on the train to Kings Cross and then on the good old Met line. I am taking clothes, laptop (not new, ultra-light funky type but 4 year old heavy, chunky type), CDs and books. I think this all. However one has to consider the volume of CDs and books. I am going home with many good intentions (as always) of actually doing some work over Easter. This involves doing one essay on population growth and development (5 big, big books needed plus 3 files) and learning the whole of my Chinese course thus far (3 books, 1 file). Well, I'm sure I'll get there eventually.

2003-03-20T17:03:00.000Z

Once Upon a Time...

...there was a woman. One evening, her friend came over from the woman's parent's home. The friend told the woman that she must go and see her parents the following day. This news made the woman very anxious. All night she worried. When she lay down, she then had to sit up again. Her husband said, 'Do not worry. When you are at home you shall know what the problem is. I do not think that there is a big problem. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, when it is bright, you can leave.' She listenned to what her husband said and lay back down. But she was still very worried. She put some clothes on and carried the baby in her arms. She went to check on her husband. He was still asleep so she did not say goodbye to him.

She walked through the gate, into a wax gourd field. She thought it was not far to go from the wax gourd field so she carried on walking. The day suddenly grew very dark. She walked very quickly and was very cautious. She stumbled and the baby fell to the ground. She felt with her hands, picked the baby up and hurried on her way.

She arrived at the house. She walked in the door and quickly looked to see if her baby was wounded. But it wasn't her baby at all, it was a melon! She began to cry and tell her younger brother how she had picked up a melon instead of her baby. They went to look for the baby but it was not there. The woman became very sad. Quickly she returned to her own home to see her husband.

She arrived back at her house. The baby was still sleeping soundly. But a pillow was missing!

What a profound story and one that I had to translate from Chinese into English today. Quite bizarre that, when I go to China, I shall be able to talk about wax gourd fields but won't be able to ask where the nearest youth hostel is. Still wax gourd fields are more useful.

2003-03-19T16:21:00.000Z

It's a Beautiful Day

The heart is a bloom
Shoots up through the stony ground
There's no room
No space to rent in this town

You're out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you're not moving anywhere

You thought you'd found a friend
To take you out of this place
Someone you could lend a hand
In return for grace

It's a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away

You're on the road
But you've got no destination
You're in the mud
In the maze of her imagination

You love this town
Even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over
And it's been all over you

It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
It's a beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Teach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

See the world in green and blue
See China right in front of you
See the canyons broken by cloud
See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out
See the Bedouin fires at night
See the oil fields at first light
And see the bird with a leaf in her mouth
After the flood all the colors came out

It was a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
Beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Reach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

What you don't have you don't need it now
What you don't know you can feel it somehow
What you don't have you don't need it now
Don't need it now
Was a beautiful day

U2

2003-03-19T16:09:00.000Z

War

Well, after months of news of weapons inspectors and potential UN resolutions, we are finally going to war with Iraq. In a strange sort of way, it seems like a relief, after so long of anticipating and speculating. At university, there are countless petitions and anti-war protests. I don't feel I can join in. It seems very easy to be anti-war. I'm split on the issue.

The second Gulf War. Except it's not. The same Iraq as before, the same Saddam Hussein. But before it was a black and white case. Iraq invading Kuwait, thus in the wrong. Collective security. This war is so much more vague which is probably why most people feel so uneasy about it. Cleary something has to be done about Saddam Hussein's regime. So many people have been maimed and tortured because of him. Someone who shouts out against the regime could expect their tongue to be cut out. The human rights abuses are vast and abominable. Something does need to be done but is war the answer?

Disarmament seems to be the main issue. And to be fair, do you trust Saddam Hussein with weapons of mass destruction? I think not. After the Gulf War, the UN resolution told Iraq, they must disarm. Instead, Saddam Hussein has built up a secret collection of nuclear, chemical and biological weapons. It does not take a genius to realise that Iraq owns a great arsenal of weapons. However, Hans Blix was not able to provide decent evidence to sway the Security Council. Hussein is obviously a highly intelligent man and is able to make things very difficult.

War, then, does not necessarily seem the wrong action to take. But is the US being unreasonable expecting these renewed negotiations to take such little time? Most people, it woud seem, would agree to war if there had been a second UN resolution. But this would not really have made the case for war any more legitimate than it is now. The Security Council's permanent five are completely unrepresentative of the world as a whole. The non permanent members do not really matter. They do not have a veto and they are much more subjected to muscle power from the US. The US threatenned to withdraw aid from both Angola and Mexico if they did not agree to the resolution. There has also been much arm twisting within the p5. So, does it really make a difference if we go to war with or without that second resolution?

I think what worries me most about this war, is the consequences that it will have. One can imagine that it will be a bloody battle. The ultimate conclusion will be the death of Saddam Hussein and his family. But he is not going to go without giving it everything he's got. The worst case scenario is nuclear war. Mutual Assured Destruction (MAD) means this isn't really going to happen. However, when dealing with this tyrant, one could not be entirely confident about this. But chemical and biological weapons are a frightening prospect. And we do not really know what weapons they have.

The impact it will have on the UN will be interesting. I don't know if it can really carry on as before after such a blatent contravening of the security council. Although, I can't imagine the institution collapsing. Maybe, this will be good time to make well overdue reforms. The US is likely to become even more powerful from this. If colonialism wasn't out of fashion, this may be seen as form of it. It is scary that the world really does only have one superpower. What will happen after this war? Will it be N. Korea? Who knows. But it seems almost laughable that the US say little about the Israel, Palestine conflict - how strange.

But you never know, Saddam Hussein might leave today. Right.

Check out Kevin Sites to find out what is going on in Iraq.

2003-03-17T21:40:00.000Z

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I have spent this afternoon celebrating the patron saint of Ireland. I am not Irish, remotely Irish or have any connection with the Irish. I know a couple of Irish people and a couple of half Irish people and that is as close to Ireland that I have got. I have not been drinking Irish drinks as I really don't like Guiness. But, I like vodka and have consumed much. Yes, it was just an excuse for drinking although, being a student, one wouldn't think I would need an excuse for such a pastime. It would have been a very successful afternoon had I just been able to steal a Guiness hat. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

But now it's essay time. Indeed, does realism provide a useful model for international politics today?

2003-03-16T17:37:00.000Z

Blackburn 2, Arsenal 0

Oh dear. Arsenal lost against Blackburn yesterday. This is never a good thing but particulaly so now that Man U is 2 points away on the Table. I am not happy about this. This is not helped by the vast numbers of Man U supporters in my building. Damn them.

2003-03-15T14:36:00.000Z

Mission ImPossible

It was a cool spring evening. The university halls of residence were quiet. A murmur of laughing and talking was echoing around centre block, from the bar. Nic was feeeling restless. All these months of paying extortionate rent for her small room and disgusting food was finally getting on top of her. She was angry. She wanted revenge.

Sweet lasting revenge.

Nic wanted to take something back. Take something back from the scummy buildings to make it all have been worthwhile. She knew what she wanted. It was a mahogany look coffee table. But she needed some help.

She called upon her friend, Hannah, the good vicar's daughter. It was not difficult to get her in on the plan. With synchronised watches, they split up and assessed the situation in centre block. No one was to be seen. They met at said table, picked it up and carried out their escape route, careful not to be spotted on their way.

Mission Completed.

2003-03-14T16:38:00.000Z

Scratching the Surface

This week, it was the eighth anniversary of a friend's death. I was twelve at the time. I knew Emma from Guides. She was born with pulmonary atresia and died during an operation. I had just changed schools, just starting to go through puberty and this event happened. Looking back, it had quite an impact on my development. Being confronted with death - not of an elderly person, a grandparent, a great aunt or uncle, but of a friend - at an age when you are developing your own views and opinions, is a terrible and frightenning thing. I lost faith in life.

I have always hated the term 'teenage angst'. This is because it was so prominent in my adolescent years. I had no hope in life. I did not want to be part of this world and I was positive that the world would be better if it did not have something as vile as me in it. When Emma died, three years of self harm followed. I would use anything I could find; knives, scissors, broken glass, razors, with their distorted reflection of reality. It was a slow and calculated action. Holding the instrument to my flesh, I would pause. A minute or so would pass before the initial piercing of skin. Slowly, I would tear the skin, tear the wound open. Then I could breathe.

The pain had been released.

I would repeat the action again and again. It gave me strength. Physical pain is much easier to deal with, to understand, than emotion pain. When I felt the pain of my self-inflicted wounds, it felt as though I had no pain. And when I looked at my naked body, criss-crossed with my work, it looked like art to me. I would lust over the thought of cutting myself again. It was a matter of survival.

Attention seeking behaviour? I would never let anyone see my cuts, my bruises, my burns. I never talked about them. So, how could it be attention seeking? On the one occassion that someone spotted my work, they sent me to a counsellor. I sat there and trivialised the whole thing - a one off event etc. No one knew that self-harm was my way of life. Behaviour in need of attention? Yes but, for me, not in the way of counselling. I needed to sort myself out. I had to discover myself, that self-inflicted pain does not replace the emotional pain. That it did not help my problems but added to them. The only way I could do this was to treat the source. What caused me to do this? When I regained my hope in life, I was able to stop cutting.

2003-03-05T22:31:00.000Z

Yey, I have curly hair. And it bounces and everything.

2003-03-05T20:39:00.000Z

Afro, Mark II

I am currently getting my hair curled by my friend, Jude. This could be interesting in that I have the straightest hair in the world. Will this be a return of the afro that I was sporting on Otley run night? Just dye it blue and remember....

2003-03-04T19:10:00.000Z

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Hannah

Just did the quiz, testing what Asian superstar I am.

These were the results:
click here to find out which asian action superstar you are!

You are Russell
Wong. you like to act tough and be bad, but you are often sensitive to the needs
of others as well as

the needs of your peers. ur the dainty, delictable, and sensitive type. u like
to be pampered and treated

like the queen that u are!

Not sure exactly how tough and bad I am but I'm happy to go with that.

2003-03-03T21:21:00.000Z

Well, just watched the Tonight programme. If any of you saw it, there isn't much more I can say. It was surreal hearing, once again, about the harshness of the attack on Margaret and then hearing about her. It is difficult putting the two together in my mind. As one of the tributes to her said, 'Such a small girl, such a big and wonderful character. We have all been robbed'.

2003-03-03T15:32:00.000Z

Psychomania

In order to stay in China for a year, it is necessary to have a medical. I just had mine and it was quite amusing. Apart from the normal malarchy that you expect, I was asked whether I had ever had certain diseases. Among the bunch of diseases that are normally vaccinated against were ones that I had never even heard of before. One of which is apparently common in cows. Are they trying to imply something about me? I was also asked if I had psychomania. Interesting. Not the most P.C. of terms. I was pleased to say that I was neither a psycho or a mentalist or any other words commonly used by my not so sensitive brothers. Although, many of my friends would perhaps think that I am strangely crazy.

The doctor also took my peak flow because I am asthmatic. I did better than a completely healthy person so the doctor had to hold up her hands and admit that perhaps my 15/day smoking habit has not done too much damage so far. But think of the long term......Yeah, well, I'll give up one day.

Now, I just need to have a chest x-ray (not to test for my tarry lungs but for TB) and an HIV test. It's all good fun preparing to go to China.

2003-03-02T13:56:00.000Z

Yesterday, I was told that there is to be a reconstruction held tomorrow, of the morning that Margaret was murdered. One month after she was killed. I was sick in my sink. I am never sick but the repulsion and disgust that is still inside me was overwhelming. Margaret Muller is a name that is now familiar to most people in Britain. People hear it and think of what the newspapers describe: 27, American artist, killed when jogging through the park. I hear the name and think of a friend - not a close friend, but a friend. I think of us having a few drinks down the Mixer, little chats on Sunday afternoons when the blokes are all playing pool, when the Sunday fatigue is high and often we can only communicate in sighs. I think of a friend who I am not going to see again become somebody decided that it was in their power to take her life.

For no reason.

The media didn't help. Although I fully realise that the media can help in appealing for witnesses, it is a very strange feeling seeing photos of a friend that you'd normally see down the pub, on the front pages of every broadsheet and tabloid, and being told that she is dead. It doesn't make it any more real. The reconstruction tomorrow is the biggest that London has ever held, involving over 100 witnesses. It shall be shown on ITV at 8pm tomorrow. No doubt I shall watch it even though it would probably be better if I didn't.

I guess the reason why I have been so happy in the last few days is a response to the events of the last month. I have a life, it's mine and I'm bloody well going to enjoy it while I can. And as big good things don't happn very often, it is the the small things that must be appreciated.

2003-03-01T14:55:00.000Z

Cigarettes and Alcohol

The Otley Run was on Thursday. The aim was to collect money for the NSPCC on the way. This way it was not just excessive drinking. It was excessive drinking in a good cause. Otley run tradition is that you have to look stupid when doing it, even at the sober start. Our group was sporting red afro wigs apart from me who got a blue one because I'm unique. Claire, Sophie and Vicky were wearing the shortest skirts in the world which proved to help greatly in our quest to raise money. Indeed, this may be alsmost a soft form of prostitution but it worked. Hardly surprising.

The mayhem started at 6pm at Woodies. The rules say that pints are to be drunk in each pub with a couple of spirit breaks along the way. I decided that I would probably explode should I drink that volume of gaseous fluid and so, for my comfort and for the sake of everyone else (trust me, a million pieces of Hannah would not be very pleasant), I stuck to vodka. It was then onto the Three Horseshoes followed by the New Inn. Up next was The Arc, Headingly Taps, The Box, The Skyrack and the Original Oak. Then another little walk to the ever-so-classy area of Hyde Park to the Hyde Park Pub. Then to the Library, the Packhorse and the Eldon. Otley run completed and I was only a bit tipsy. Not satisfied, it was off to Bar Risa for some more.

I returned to Bod with a much lighter purse but having had a successful evening. The two missions I had been set for the night had been completed. Firstly, the flashing of my upper half at many moving vehicles, buses in particular - not my normal behaviour, you realize. Secondly, not removing my sexy blue wig once all night.

2003-02-25T21:26:00.000Z

Little Miss Happy

I walked out of my tutorial this afternoon and suddenly realised I had a huge grin plastered on my face. But why? I thought. Is it because I got a decent night's sleep last night? Is it because I gave a presentation during my tutorial that gave out the idea that I had done some work? Is it because I am looking forward to doing the Leeds renowned pub crawl, the Otley run, on Thursday? And although these things all are good, it was not because of them that I was smiling stupidly. It was because I was just happy about being. That was it. When I realised this, I became even happier at the fact that I was just happy.

2003-02-14T18:25:00.000Z

Bloody Valentines

Yes, it's Valentines Day. I am not a happy gal. I am considering that purchasing an air rifle might be a good idea so that I can shoot all the smug couples that walk anywhere near me. Sounds like fun. Actually, better than that, evil fun. Just sent Mark an email trying to be as casual as possible and attempting to tell him how I feel but being as shit as usual. Oh well. I'll probably grow old as an ugly old spinster.

2003-02-13T17:12:00.000Z

How can England lose to Australia in football? Rugby - I can understand. Cricket - I can understand. Athletics - I can understand. But football. Australia are shit at football. They don't even call it football. They call it soccer. That says everything. Not impressed.

2003-02-12T19:59:00.000Z

Went home at the weekend. It was really nice to see Patrick again. His motorbike injuries weren't nearly as minging as I had expected which meant I wasn't able to take the piss as much as I had hoped. As soon as I walked through the door, I was confronted with the millions of photos he had taken on his travels. I have to admit that they were quite good and as I had been to many of the same places, it was quite nice. On the Sunday, we did the whole family lunch thing. James and Rachel came over and Vic (Rachel's partner). We generally have a laugh when the whole family are together which is always good.

The rest of the weekend was not so good. Went into Camden on Saturday to see people. Everyone in the Mixer is trying to deal with the news about Margaret in their own ways. Unfortunately I didn't get to see Tim or Dave which was a shame. Sara had flown in from Sweden on Thursday so I spoke to her for ages. Rich was pissed out of his head and has been ever since he heard the news. Whilst Mike was trying to chat up boring Martin's friend Jess. Well, this doesn't describe anything unusual from everyday Mixer life. But it was different. Obviously. There was no point in asking how anyone was because everyone knew how each other were. I guess it was just an evening made up of understanding looks and glances mixed up with sighs in the troughs between conversations. The thing is, it is not just a death of a friend that has to be come to terms with. There is also the fact that she was murdered. A motiveless murder in broad daylight in a busy place. It's not that I think that the same will happen to me. But I haven't slept since and I haven't stopped shaking since. These things do actually happen. And they happen to normal people like us who do normal things and have normal friends. It's scary.

2003-02-05T20:35:00.000Z

I rang Mark yesterday evening to find out that the girl who was murdered in Hackney yesterday morning was actually a friend of ours. She wasn't a close friend of mine but she drank in the same pub as me and, over the summer, I spoke to her quite a lot. I just felt numb all of last night. Today, I feel physically sick. The images that the newspapers portray, of the screams, of repeated stab wounds to the neck and body, of the pool of blood in which she was found; they keep haunting my mind. And it makes me wretch.

Most people are able to go through their lives, until middle-age, without having any friends die. It seems that I am not so lucky. When I was 12 a friend died during an operation on her heart. Two years ago on Sunday, a friend committed suicide. Just over a year ago, a friend died in a motorbike crash. Now this. It doesn't seem right. When a young person dies, it just seems such a waste. And murder is so brutal. It leaves everyone with the question, Why? But, I guess you don't get anywhere if you try to explain what has happened.

2003-02-04T21:10:00.000Z

Home Sweet Home

My brother, Patrick, returned home yesterday from eighteen months of travelling. I am going home for the weekend to see him and I'm really looking forward to it. He has done the standard backpacker route: Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Malaysia, Singapore, Bali, Australia and then back to Thailand again. Lucky bastard! Not that I can really talk, having done ten months of travelling last year and off to China next year. His last couple of weeks have not been quite so good - he's been robbed about ten times and was in a motorbike crash. He was fine though. It did shake me up a little as someone I knew was killed in a motorbike crash a year ago when she was in Thailand. She was an amazing person and had set up a charity called KSDP on her gap year, helping the kerreni refugees in northern Thailand.

Patrick is not really someone to let things get him down and took the opportunity of having his face mashed up as an opportunity to make him look good in front of his mates. Apparently, he actually did it in a Thai boxing competition in which he was the only non-Thai competing. Ahem, right!

I was quite amused to know that he had posted loads of his things home, before he left Australia. This parcel included every pair of trousers he had. This meant that he had to land in Heathrow airport, in the cold snowy conditions, wearing shorts! Ha ha

Still, I'm feeling bad for my bro at the moment. The novelty of a clean bath, washing machines that actually clean, food that isn't instant noodles, not having to go out with mosquito repellent three inches thick on, being able to get a proper cup of tea, being able to go to bed without the fear of bed bugs, not having to live out of a backpack, the novelties don't last long. It's alright for me to say this. When I returned, I was off to uni to have the travelling lifestyle without the travelling. He has to get a proper job. Gutted.

2003-01-31T19:30:00.000Z

Zhong-Guo-Renification

I have decided to change my course at uni: instead of doing straight International Relations, I shall be doing it as part of a joint honours degree with Chinese. So I have spent this week organising it with all the various departments. This was a bit of a mission at times, especially when talking to the Chinese department. They have a tendency to be quite vague. I think it may be because there is no direct translation for the words 'yes' and 'no' in Mandarin. The answer you get from a question is generally in the form of 'maybe I do not know', or 'I think so'. Helpful.

But I think I have got it finally sorted. And this means I shall be going to China next year to study. It hasn't sunk in yet. I am quite excited as I went to China last year and loved it. I am looking forward to becoming Zhong-guo-ren-ified once again. Indeed this may not be strictly speaking a real phrase but in Hannahspeak, it means becoming a Chinese person. Yes, soon I shall be using chopsticks expertly, eating pigs intestines, wearing pyjamas to go to the shops in, bargaining at the markets, smoking 'double happiness' cigarettes, drinking vast quantities of green tea, jasmine tea, woolong tea, abandonning any concept of queueing for the bus, drinking tsingtao beer, going to squat toilets and spitting with the rest of them. And I can't wait.

2003-01-29T19:25:00.000Z

No Pain No Gain

So I have started my super active lifestyle. This is very strange in the world of Hannah. On Monday, I went ice skating and successfully managed to not fall over. Quite an achievment. And I went swimming both yesterday and today. Now I hurt. As a result, I'm feeling very proud of myself. If it hurts, it must be doing some good.

The question is, shall I keep up with it? Unlikely Will try to for the moment though. My mum and I saw a programme about the slimmers of the year and it scared me a lot. All these people who were 25 stone. Not a pleasant sight. So I am taking a stand against the horrible hall food that we are inflicted to and for once in my life, I shall be healthy.

2003-01-25T16:01:00.000Z

In the Name of the Father....

I'm back up to Leeds this afternoon, having pretty much recovered from my tonsilitis. This morning I was woken up by my father in a 'someone's died' sort of way saying that a member of his congregation had offered to take me back up. I decided I would be a selfish, spoilt youngest child by refusing the offer and making my mum drive me up. It's not that I didn't appreciate the offer. However, vicar's children do suffer.

I personally didn't fancy being in a car for almost 4 hours with a woman I've never met, watching what I say and not swearing, even if she is a lovely person.

You see, normally I behave like me, but as soon as a church person is close by, I go into vicar's daughter mode. When, in this mode, it is necessary to talk in the most articulate way possible. The phrases 'Oh my God!', 'Oh Christ!' etc must not appear in the conversation unless a praying position is to be take on. Brownie points can be scored if you remember something about them - eg new grandchildren, changed denomination. Reply politely and vaguely when they ask about lack of church attendence, lack of baptism or confirmation, lack of communion consumption and so on. Then excuse yourself and talk to someone else quickly, before you get too pissed off.

It's not too bad I suppose and nowadays I only really have to survive it all on Christmas Day but I would like to make clear the life of a vicar's daughter is not all tea and scones, it's hard work!

2003-01-23T16:19:00.000Z

Education, Education, Education

So, the Government's White Paper on Higher Education was published yesterday. As a student, this is something that has gripped the attention of both me and my friends for some time now. And what have they finally decided on? Anything up to £3000/yr to be paid back when the graduate is earning more than £15000/yr.

The payment of up to £3000 seems much more reasonable than previous suggestions for top-up fees. However, I have several concerns. Firstly, grants to help with these costs are only available to students who's parents are earning a mere £10000. Students from families who are better off than this will recieve nothing but could still be financially badly off. It is not going to be the very poor who suffer but those slightly better off.

Different universities are allowed to charge varying amounts, with universities like Oxford and Cambridge charging the maximum. This is just re-enforcing the idea of elitist universities. Money is going to be an issue rather than just intellectual capabilities. Personally, i would not let this stand in my way. I would go to the university I was capable of getting into and pay back the fees later. But this would not be the case with all students and a two-tier university system could well be a result.

Being a student today means getting into debt. It is one of life's certainties. My student loan is almost £3000 each year. I live off this money and am not in a position to put it into a high-interest account like some. This means that at the end of a 3 year degree, I shall have a debt of £9000. I am lucky in that my parents give me some financial help towards accomodation and fees. But in 2006, when the new system would come into effect, my debt would be doubled to £18000. This is a lot of debt to be in at this stage of your life, before you have to deal with mortgages etc.

So, you start paying off your debt when you are earning more that £15000. My friends struggle to live off over 20 grand a year, living and working in London, and they are not paying back student debts. The new student will pay back at 9% of their wage. This is higher than tax for millionaires. It seems that most graduates will be paying back their debts for much of their lives.

It is a difficult issue to resolve. Whilst more money needs injecting into the Higher Education sector, it is hard to forget that the Ministers who wish to inflict increased debts on students are the same people who were given decent grants to gain their education from Oxbridge.

I'm just glad that I'll miss these new top-up fees.

2003-01-20T17:05:00.000Z

Tonsil: Protective masses of lymphoid tissue in the throat

I went back to uni last week. On the Monday, having returned to halls after handing an essay in, I started feeling pretty shit. A couple of hours later, I was feeling really awful. On Tuesday morning, went to the doctors - acute tonsilitis. I go down with throat infections all the time so this came as no surprise. In fact, I'm getting the beasts taken out in April. Unfortunately, my being ill meant I had to miss my exams. Normally a good thing but now I have to come back in August to do them then. Not impressed.

According to my Concise Home Doctor circa 1930ish, tonsils filter off septic matter from the mouth and destroy it. It frequently happens, however, that the tonsils are overwhelmed in infection and become chronically enlarged and unhealthy. They are then rather a menace than a help and ought to be removed.

I have often wonderend how tonsils are removed. Mine are almost the size of golf balls so they must be particularly difficult. Reading on in my medical book, I discover that it is through a tonsillotomy. The tonsillotome consists of a cutting blade furnished with a handle which works in a frame having a rounded opening towards its end. The tonsil is pushed through this hole and when the blade is pushed home it guillotines the projecting tonsil.

Medical science has come along way in the last 70 years and I hope this operation is no exception. I wasn't scared about it before. Now I am.

2003-01-10T12:05:00.000Z

2003-01-10T11:06:00.000Z

Job Satisfaction?

Went to work last night - lifeguarding. It is a fairly alright job for a student needing the money. But, it is the most mind-numbingly boring job in the world. Watching people swim. Well, technically you have to identify potential hazards, prevent accidents from ocurring and be there within seconds if anything does happen. In reality, it is just watching people swim. Unlike other jobs that are boring, cash-out person in the supermarket, for example, when lifeguarding you are actually not allowed to daydream the hours away. So, one has to devise ways to make the hours more interesting.

1. When counting the bather load, I see how many different languages I can count in. The answer is four (other than English): French, Latin, Chinese and Fijian.

2. See how long I can swing my whistle around in circles before it hits a small child.

3. I pretend that the reaching poles are actually rifles and try and shoot the lifeguards that are situated in other positions around the leisure centre. This is fun for several moments although one does generally get stared at.

Another drawback is that it is the worst possible job to do whilst hungover. Everyone thinks this about their job but this is the truth. The humidity, millions of screaming children, having to stay alert, cleaning changing rooms that are covered in hair, are not really agreeable to someone feeling a little fragile.

Still I'd prefer to lifeguard than many other jobs. In China, there are some interesting jobs:

In every lift, in every building in China, someone is employed to sit in the lift and press the button for the required storey. Sounds very rewarding.

On boats in China, there is someone employed to distribute sick bags. Once the bags have been filled, they then have to collect them and empty them into a bucket. Not my idea of fun. But I wonder what his official title would be? Regurgiatation and expectorate disposal technician?

I think I'll stick to being a tax-dodging student.

2003-01-08T12:31:00.000Z

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2003-01-08T12:29:00.000Z

I was reading in the Independent yesterday that, in the US, there was a poll to find out who was the greatest American of all times. In joint thirteenth position was Bill Clinton and Jesus. Ahem......only in America!

2003-01-07T17:41:00.000Z

Ni Hao Ma?

It has been China season on Channel 4 recently, several documentaries and films dedicated to China. I have taken particular interest in this because I spent 3 months in China last year, teaching English.

I missed Mao’s Children due to my parents being incapable of using the VCR. Apparently it was good, but showed the repression that is still apparent in China. The average tourist in China would be unlikely to notice the fact that politically China is still very much communist but stay there a little longer and you will soon realise that in this fascinating country, things are not always as they seem.

Graham Norton took a visit to Shanghai and he showed the viewer a good whistlestop tour of the city: past the European buildings of the colonial, opium influenced 1920s and 30s; into the parks where people still congregate to sing or do tai qi; through to the backstreets where the normal, local people or ‘workers’ get on with their everyday lives uninfluenced by the rapid development of the city particularly in the New Economic Zone over in Pudong. I was especially pleased that he commented on people cycling around in their pyjamas. This is an important feature of day-to-day life in Shanghai, people wearing pyjamas - to go shopping, to go into town, whatever. And in winter, they start selling padded pyjamas. He also went to a bath house which is an experience that is definitely recommended. Lots of middle-aged naked people, herb saunas that are so strong, breathing is really quite difficult, bathing in jasmine tea or ginseng, and strange little cubicles in which you get water squirted at you from random angles. Superb.

I was rather upset though that he failed to travel at all by bus. It is indeed rare for a westerner to do so when the taxis are so cheap, but the bus is far more exciting and worth all of the 8p fare. There seems to be no concept of queuing in China. This doesn’t mean the people are rude, it is just the way it is. So elbows are important if you want to stand a chance of getting on a bus. Being squashed against the front windscreen, next to the bus driver with nothing to hold on to as the bus drives maniacally through the chaotic streets is definitely worth doing.

Another programme that was shown was ‘What She Wants’ which focussed on the role of women in China, and how communism has made them more equal. It s true that the communist regime has led to much repression but I think it is important to recognise that with some things, even if it is only a few, they do seem to have got it right. Most less economically developed countries, hold on to the traditional role of women. But in China, they are almost equal to men. Don’t get me confused for a feminist but this is important.

2003-01-04T15:43:00.000Z

Merry New Year!

Yes, the new year of 2003 has arrived (well, that's what my hangover on Wednesday indicated) and the festivities of Christmas are over - thank god. I normally enjoy Christmas probably because it is the only time that I really get the chance to see both my brothers and my sister all at the same time. So, whilst my friends were all dreading the approaching season, I was quite happy. This year, however, I lacked sibling support with Patrick off travelling in Thailand and Rachel on holiday, leaving me to have a day of fun, fun, fun with my parents, grandparents and James. I do not understand why grandparents seem to think that being related gives them the right to insult their grandchildren.

Particularly Classic Insults:

1. I have a photo of you by my bed but if I'd realised how big you were going to get I wouldn't have bothered because I'd have been too scared.

2. How did you manage to have a shower so quickly when you have such a big carcass?

3. So, you haven't spent your first term at uni wasting away then.

Aiya!

But now life can return to normal, the grandparents have gone home, the only remaining turkey is in soup form (vile) and now we are left with the sales and supporting the poor sods who actually thought it was a good idea to make new year's resolutions.