A Lack of Inspiration [Part The Two] …


I change my mind about my favourite season as often as I change my mind about my hair colour.  Not that my hair colour has changed often.  Mainly it’s been red, or black, or tinged with purple.  Naturally it’s dark brown with copper highlights.  Currently it’s chocolate brown with blonde [very blonde] highlights, but not many.  I love the blonde-ness.  It reminds me of being thirteen and visiting France, of Kevin and Belinda enticing me to buy Sun-In and spraying it all over my fringe.  I thought I was oh-so rebellious.  I didn’t realise that my hair would be the type that would hold colour and not want to relinquish it.  I feel blessed to have hair like this.  Apart from the odd grey hair that insists on poking itself out and waving at me in the mirror.


I’m not a summer person.  I can’t stand the heat, never have been able to.  I’m English through and through in that respect.  Winter is too cold and can only be adored because it brings Christmas and darkness.  Spring and autumn are both perfect seasons.  I like the sound of crispy leaves underfoot in the autumn and the fresh smell of rain in the spring.


If I could trade places with anyone for a day I would trade places with my Tabatha Cat.  I would spend twenty-four hours being incredibly lazy; eating, sleeping and playing with my pink fluffy toy mice.  It would be bliss.  I might have to run behind the tellybox when I hear loud noises, but what the heck.  I wouldn’t be able to eat my vanilla ice-cream  


[best served with soda or lemonade]


though, because it would be too cold for my nose to cope with and I’m sure that my nose would be happiest if it was warm.


If I didn’t have to peel the potatoes, watch them boil and then mash them, I would eat mashed potatoes all year.  Really.  With tomato ketchup.  And a little bit of grated cheese.  But after a long day at work the last thing on my mind is peeling potatoes.  Pasta is so much simpler.


When I was fourteen I was mixed up, confused, lost.  I would read too much, write in my diary [he looked at me today.  i thought my heart would melt.  she’s such a bitch.  i hate him, why did he do that to me?] too much, argue with my family too much.  The whole world was against me and I couldn’t do anything about it.  I could lash out at people, scream and kick, lock people out of the house, and run away from home.  But I couldn’t rid myself of the demons inside me. I had another aspect to my character though.  A part of me was sweet and lovable.  She wanted to be loved and adored.  The pills that the volatile me kept in the drawer with my knickers were nothing to do with the sweet me.  I don’t know that I’ve changed too much.  I can still be volatile, and I can still be sweet.  I still create a fuss when I don’t get my own way.  I just know how to control my feelings a lot more these days. 


I think I have a beautiful soul.  I think that my soul is pure and unique and unconventional.  I don’t believe that physically I am unconventionally beautiful.  Nor do I believe that I am conventionally beautiful. Perhaps my character is unconventionally beautiful, but to recognise that you might need to know me quite well.  If I believed that I was beautiful [unconventionally or otherwise] I would have no problem in front of the camera.  As it is, I detest having myself filmed, either statically or in motion.  Point a camera in my direction and I will curse you and haunt your dreams.  I promise.


[having said this, we have a video from the big brother’s first czecho wedding, back in ’95, and i’m a tad pissed, and happy, and dancing with some dodgy geezer and i look gorgeous.  i think …]


I have never watched Coupling.  No, this is a lie.  I watched one episode once, and it wasn’t even the British version.  They made four series’, that’s all I know. 


I ate Black Pudding once.  When myself and The Blokey first started seeing each other we would go and stay in hotels so that we could indulge ourselves [] without having to worry about parental units.  One day The Blokey had a full English fried breakfast and insisted I try the Black Pudding.  I actually liked it.  I won’t eat it though because of what it is, blood.  It’s something that is more common up north and in Scotland.  Us pansies down south don’t have it so much.  We’re not made of the sterner stuff. 


What, there’s going to be a [Part The Three]?  Oh, horror!


This post comes to you from the minds of her, her, her and her


With grateful thanks.

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9 comments

  1. ALright. I have gone and read their sites! They’re really good. But I have no cool questions to ask, because I am doing major assignments right now. I hope you are having a fun time, because, really, i should be and am not…

  2. Hmm, thanks very much for answering my questions. =) It’s interesting that you were so different from me when you were my age. At least, I think you were different. haha. But it’s hard seeing yourself from another person’s perspective, so I could be wrong. But I don’t really do those kinds of things- I mean, I’m still terribly typical, but…I dunno.

  3. I’m glad you don’t eat black pudding.  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to eat it.  To be fair, though, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to eat chitlins either.
    I’d love to be your cat for a while. Oh, the lack of responsibility!
    I think you have a beautiful soul too.

  4. Sun-in! Oh dear, that brings back memories of 1980s casuals and flicked hair drowned in Cossack hairsray, and naughty 6th form lunch-breaks in Churchill Gardens with baggy trousers and shiny blouses.

  5. Oh good lord, blood pudding??  Im gagging over here just thinking about it.
    sun-in!! ahahha that was some cool stuff back then.  that and Id spray lemon juice in my hair!

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