So, more news on the job front.  I was applying for another council job online today.  When you use their online system, it gives you the option to 'use' a previous application form - a great time saving as you don't have to fill in all the fiddly details about education etc.  Well, when applying for this latest job, next to one of the jobs I had previously applied for was 'send invitation letter'.

What a highly promising phrase!  If only I knew exactly what it promised.  I'm rather hoping that it means I may have an interview.  On the other hand, maybe I've been invited  to a swanky party.  Unlikely, and not quite as thrilling as a job offer, but who would turn down a free night out? 

The other problem I have is that there seem to be some kinks in the council's online application system, because when I tried to log onto the system to review the details of my potentially successful application form, it appeared to be lost.  This is particularly irksome because, alas, I have no idea which job I may have an interview for.  The job title is 'administration assistant'.  Not alot of help really.  If I really do have an interview, I'm not sure how I will prepare for it, because I don't know anything about the job!  Ah well.

I'm going to badminton with Rob tonight.  I'm actually quite looking forward to it.  For those of you who know my history with badminton, this may be quite surprising.  But last week (my first time) was actually alot of fun.  Granted, I didn't actually manage to serve in the right direction until the very last game, but otherwise I hit the shuttlecock a surprising amount (pure reaction, I'm sure).

The only downer on last week was when I encountered Richard.  Rob was reviewing the complicated system the club uses to organize matches with Richard, while I stood by him and attemped to make sense of the board with pegs on.  Rob politely said,

"Oh, Emma, this is Richard."

I smiled at the friendly-looking man, and said,

"Hi Richard, I'm Emma, Rob's wife."

To which he replied, with a suddenly stony, non-friendly face,

"I know.  We've met."

Aaaargh.  Aaargh.  Argh.

I have met *so* many new people, is it any wonder I have no recollection of meeting some of them?  Richard did speak to me later but my attempts at a light, witty conversation were somewhat hampered by the unescapable knowledge that Richard had remembered me, and I hadn't remembered him - the implied insult being that Richard is not in any way memorable.  I'm sure that is not the case.  I'm sure Richard is a wonderful, pleasant, helpful man who is overflowing with good features which make him highly memorable.  Just not highly memorable to me.  Oh dear.

Anyway, aside from that blush-inducing moment badminton was alot of fun.  Hopefully tonight will be just as fun.

One of the wonderful things about job hunting is all the little surprises you get. Like today, when I got an application form in the post which I don't remember asking for. I must have asked for it, (because otherwise how would North Star Foundation have my address?) but I really have no recollection of it.

 

When you already have a job, you can be picky about what you apply for. Every application is a considered decision and you eagerly await to hear if you will be offered the position. When you do not have a job, job hunting is somewhat less selective. That is to say, you chuck your CV / application form at every even moderately good job title in a 30 mile radius of your postcode.

 

The golden lining of this particular cloudy situation is that rejection doesn't seem to matter so much, partly because you get a lot of it, and partly because the chances are you were never that bothered about the job in the first place. Take today, for instance. I got a rejection letter from the council. It didn't faze me too much, but as it just said 'administrator' for the job title (and I have applied for a zillion of those), I logged onto the 'my applications' section of the council website to see which one it was. Turns out it could be one of two, because I have also been turned down by another department, only they didn't write to tell me about it.

 

Unless their letter is in the post, which would make a nice surprise tomorrow morning.

I have decided to start blogging again.  This may seem like a stupid thing to tell you, because if you are reading this, you have undoubtedly realised that I am blogging again.  But I am out of practice and have forgotten how to start a post, so I say: I have decided to start blogging again.


I have alot of free time at the moment, so blogging seems like a reasonable thing to take up.  It's good practice for my writing skills (sort of) and anyone who wants to know how my new married life is going will be able to find out easily.


With all this free time I have started setting myself goals, things to achieve over the course of the morning / day / week.  Goals and aims are a good thing to have in life.  Big, far-reaching goals are positively encouraged by just about everyone.

(“Emma, you should start writing a book!”

“I'd love to! Anyone got a good idea to get me started? No? Nothing? Well, maybe not just yet then.”)

Me, I prefer the little goals. Things that I feel I can actually achieve, so that when I achieve them, I get that 'done something I set out to do' smug glow. Things like making a cake, doing a load of ironing, vacuuming the flat and other such housewifely things.

Now, I know that getting a job should probably be the goal I am telling you about. And don't get me wrong, it is a goal. It's just...well...remember the little goals? Getting a job is not a little goal. It's a humongous goal. Writing a book might just be a more achievable goal. Because apparently, no employers like me. I seem to be unemployable. Which is very unfair. It makes me feel like marching into their offices to declare that I am darn employable. It makes me want to hire a mini-bus, and collect up all the HR officers at all the companies who do not want me, and bring them to my flat, so they can see me, and speak to me, and realise that I am darn employable, unbelievably employable, scream-and-tear-your-hair-out-that-you-missed-the-chance-to-employ-me employable.

Except of course this would have exactly the opposite effect and would probably get me committed.

Anyway, in addition to the job hunting I have another goal: compiling wedding photo albums. I have always liked photos. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I like seeing your sunny faces smiling out at me, or maybe it's just because it helps my feeble mind to remember events more clearly. But I really like them. And these days when you get married, you get a heck of a lot of photos. Really nice photos. And what is a photo enthusiast meant to do when faced with the temptation of hundreds, nay thousands of very lovely wedding photos?

I found websites where you only pay P&P on your order and got around 400 photos printed.

Now I know that seems like a lot, but it really, really isn't. Because you need to consider that number in the context of the 1,500 photos I was choosing from. Really I have shown a great deal of restraint. Imagine! 1,500 photos to sort through and only picking 400 to print. That is less than a third. That is positively abstemious.

And anyway you can never have too many photo albums, and if there is ever an intruder in the flat I will be able to use my albums as hefty 'blunt object' style weapons.

So, I did one of these automatic Santa letter generator things...this was the result...

Dear Santa... Dear Santa, This year I've been busy! In July I ate my brussel sprouts (1 points). In August I committed genocide... Sorry about that, tomatomtom (-5000 points). In March belv and I donated clothes to the needy (11 points). Last week I punched coffee_boy in the arm (-10 points). Last Saturday I got in line at the supermarket at the same time as someone else and I didn't yield (-8 points). Overall, I've been naughty (-5006 points). For Christmas I deserve a spanking! Sincerely, pinkemzie

Write your letter to Santa! Enter your LJ username:

Not loving the naughty verdict, I tried again. And got this.

Dear Santa... Dear Santa, This year I've been busy! Last Tuesday on a flight to Bangladesh, I stole the emergency flight information card (-40 points). In February becksyboo and I robbed a bank (-50 points). In January I pulled over and changed gerbilboy's flat tire (15 points). Last Thursday I gave lavely_heather a life-saving blood transfusion (50 points). Last Wednesday I pushed belv in the mud (-17 points). Overall, I've been naughty (-42 points). For Christmas I deserve a spanking! Sincerely, pinkemzie

Write your letter to Santa! Enter your LJ username:

This final effort, whilst finally deciding I was worth a gift, still doesn't show me to be nicest person ever...I just can't understand it!!

Dear Santa... Dear Santa, This year I've been busy! Last week I set becksyboo's puppy on fire (-66 points). In April I helped coffee_boy hide a body (-173 points). Last Monday I helped liquidblack across the street (6 points). In March I gave change to a homeless guy (19 points). Last Wednesday I ruled Canada as a kind and benevolent dictator (700 points). Overall, I've been nice (486 points). For Christmas I deserve an Easy-Bake Oven! Sincerely, pinkemzie

Write your letter to Santa! Enter your LJ username:

*Sigh*

Creative Writing - 66 (boo, should I really be taking it next year as it's a double module? Hmmm)
Love and Death - 68
Children's Literature - 72 (big mystery, think she gave me good marks coz she didn't know the books I wrote on)
Shakespeare's Tragedies - 72
Canterbury Tales 1 (double module) - 75

Can anyone tell me how the double modules are assessed? What does my mark actually mean in terms of my overall average? Do my total marks just get divided between 11 instead of 12? Do I get two marks of 75 (seems unlikely and overgenerous)? It's fairly important as I'm hovering right between 69 and 70!

In other news...
(Sound of Big Ben: Bonnnnnng...)
I cannot find a job and so am trying to do lots of housework for mum. Muchos ironing.

(Bonnnnnng...)

We (my family) are suddenly going to Croatia for two weeks. The foreign office website has this to say about Croatia:
"Unexploded land mines are still a danger. Highly populated areas and major routes are now clear of mines and are safe to visit. However, isolated areas in the mountains and countryside have not all been cleared. You should therefore be careful not to stray from roads and paved areas without an experienced guide."
Assuming we return home intact, I'm sure I'll be raving about how it's a beautiful country.

(Bonnnnnng...)

I have just been to visit Rob, he's lovely and I'm going to miss him.

(Bonnnnnng...)

And I've not yet eaten lunch so I'm off to do that!

(Oooh and Lav thank you very much for the postcard!)

Pink Love,
Emzie xxxx

Ebay!  I finally signed up and got my own account.  It has been great the past few days, as I've got some fantastic bargains.

First, these shoes:



They cost £6.20 including p&p, which I feel is very reasonable.  I know they're abit plain, but never fear!  They will not remain that way long.

I originally saw these shoes:



But it was obvious they were going to go for far too much money for a pair of customised plimsoles.  And they did - £19 including p&p!!!!!  Ridiculous.  Anyway, that's now beside the point because my cunning plan is to customise my plain white pair to look like this funky pair...at a fraction of the price.  The shoes should arrive tomorrow morning.


I then bought this:



It probably doesn't seem too exciting to most people, but I thought it was both cool and a bargain.  Since I have discovered I rather like making clothes, I keep an eye open for bargain fabric.  I got 51 feet of this lace stuff for just £2.49!  It'll make a cool little top layer on skirts.  It's only 6 cm high, but that's actually a good thing; I can do two layers if I want it wider.  The best bit is that when you pull the blue cords the lace ruffles up, which I think will look great!


My final purchase was this:



In case you can't see properly from the photo, it's a very fine mesh material.  I think it'll make a great little skirt!!  There's plenty of it so I should be able to do 2/3 layers to make the skirt nice and flooshy.  With p&p this cost £3.40, which again I think is brilliant.  You'd pay so much more in a shop!

I'm off home tomorrow.  I'm just waiting for my shoes which I've been promised will arrive in the post tomorrow.  After that I'll catch a train home :-)  Yay!  It'll be *so* nice to relax at home for a few days.  Plans include job hunting (bleurgh), making a dress, making a bag and reading some of the last Harry Potter book so my memory's refreshed ready for the new one!  It'll just be lovely to see all my family though.  (Even if both Mum and Dave are working hard for exams/assessments atm!)

Anyway...I'll post at greater length soon about all my various little adventures...right now I'm off to watch the last few minutes of ER.

Pink Love!

Emzie xxxxx

Heya all!

Now here's a great way for you to all avoid revision, just have a read of some of these.  They're quotes from a site called iusedtobelieve.com.  These ones are about what people used to believe about films, I've tried to select some of the funniest for you.  Certain ones apparently loads of kids believed but I've included some amusing variations on the theme.

The site also has loads of other topics, so I shall probably be having a browse and doing another post about it!  But for now...enjoy and have a giggle...

Love,
Emma Pink xxxx


I always wondered as a child how people went to the loo when ating in a long film (not relasing that films are recorded in parts then put together) I though they must have loos hidden on chairs and during filming they could go and sit on a chair and sectetly go with out any one knowing...

I had a friend who, as a child, used to think that name of our local movie theater was "a theater near you" because of the commercials that always said "coming soon to a theater near you" :-)

When I was young my father told me that it was his job to pull the MGM Lion's tail and make him roar. I believed that for years and even bragged to my friends about it.

I used to think that James Bond and all the other secret agents worked for MFI.

I spent my childhood Saturday afternoons watching a lot of old musicals on TV.  I used to believe that grownups got involved in song and dance routines as part of their day to day lives.   It used to bother me that I wouldn't know what to do if a bunch of singing and dancing strangers leapt up to me and tried to incorporate me into their number.  I consoled myself by supposing that as I got older the dance steps and the words would come to me naturally, like other grownup ways.

when i was little, i used to think that when you watched a movie, the actors had to act it out again. i also thought that when i was watching a movie, and someone else started watching it, they couldn't see it because the actors couldn't act it out twice at the same time

I was (and still am) a big fan of Mary Poppins it was truly magical and eveything seemed to be real. I honestly thought that you could fit anything in a carpet bag,fly up chimneys and float when you laugh but out of all of them i thought you could jump into chalk pictures. As i was out with my mum when i was little, we walked past an artist drawing chalk pictures and i stood by one. I did the little rhyme by Bert in the film and jumped onto the picture. I opened my eyes only to find an angry artist staring at me. Before he could do anything my mum apologised and quickly dragged me away. I was so disappointed that it didn't work.

When a movie covered a large number of years, I believed that a portion was filmed, then several years passed for the actors to grow older before finishing the movie. How else could the people grow old?

This is my daughter's. She's seven now.  We took her to her first movie in a theater when she was three. She did really well and loved the show. Then at the end, when the lights came up, she ran down to the front of the theater and started looking around on the wall under the screen.  We were about 7 or 8 rows back and called up to her to see what she was doing. She said, "Where's the tape?"   At home it is her job to put the video tape away after we watch a movie so she was up there looking for the slot that the tape would come out of now that the show was over.

I always wondered as a child how people went to the loo when ating in a long film (not relasing that films are recorded in parts then put together) I though they must have loos hidden on chairs and during filming they could go and sit on a chair and sectetly go with out any one knowing...

Whenever I saw a movie based on a true story, I used to believe that there were cameras following the "real" person around and I would wonder how they knew that a good story was going to happen to that particular person. And if someone killed someone I wondered why that person was stupid enough to do it in front of a camera.

I used to believe up until the age of ten that when you wached a movie, it was live-acted. A little signal would be sent to some studio somewhere, where all the actors were, and they would start acting the movie you were watching. If you paused it they all had to stand still and wait till you hit Play again. I always wondered how if two people were watching different movies with the same actor in it, how the actor could act two movies at once and appear to only be doing one at a time. I also wondered why they never messed up a line or forgot to do something.

I was about 5 when my dad took me to the cinema for the first time. Sat there with a tub of popcorn about the size of me and enough coke to fill as swimming pool, my eyes widened as the curtains parted and I shouted "Look dad! They've got magic curtains!"

When seeing films from the advent of motion pictures, I assumed that everybody used to walk differently than we do now, and that's why people's movements were so jerky. It was years later I learned it was the difference in the film equipment used.

I used to believe that movie ratings stood for the following: G=Good, PG=Pretty Good, R=Rotten, X=Extra Rotten. Now that I'm grown up, I have different thoughts on this.

I use to believe that people in black and white pictures only saw in black and white.

When I was about three, my brother would always make me watch Star Wars with him. He would pause the movie and ask me the characters' names, and I would say them. When he told me Luke Skywalker's name, my first response was, " Can he walk on the sky?" I believed that he could walk on the sky until I was about eight years old.

When I was a kid I used to believe that (whether or not you were watchiing a color or black & white television) when Dorothy got to Oz you would see it in color.

For the biggest part of my childhood I believed that when a character in a movie died, the actor was actually killed. I always wondered where they found all the people so willing to end their life for entertainment?!?

I used to believe when characters on tv shows or movies were killed, that suicidal actors played those parts.

I used to think that the poeple who died in movies were actually death-row inmates that got to choose this way to be killed.

I used to feel really sorry for poor old Will. In every war/movie/cowboy movie I ever saw, some nasty man would shout "Fire at Will!!!"  I wondered why he would agree to appear in so many movies if he knew he was going to be shot at......

my friend thought that the film 'the hulk' was about the jolly green giant from the sweetcorn adverts.

I used to believe that the credits at the end of a movie was a list of people in that were watching it.

I used to believe that special effects in films were done by people wearing camera-proof clothing who moved stuff around on the screen.

I used to believe that going to the movies made it nightime. When we'd go in it was daytime and when we would comeout it would be night time. The first time we left a matinee I was truly dismayed.

My parents told me that if you touched the cinema screen you woukld be electrocuted. This was clearly just a ploy to make me behave at the cinema, but I believed it for years, as no-one ever touched the cinema screen!

When I saw a Back to the Future II scene of Marty McFly talking to Doc Brown on the Walkie-Talkie, I thought Marty said "Duck, duck come in!"

my four year old niece loved watching "My Fair Lady", and thought the main lady singing was called "Her eyes are too little" [Eliza Doolittle]

When I was a kid a friend of mine told me about this alien movie he had seen. In one scene the good guys were on a roof throwing Molotov Cocktails at the aliens. I didn’t know what that was, but didn’t want to ask either. I had this image in my head of people on a roof throwing Martinis at the aliens and wondering how that was going to help.

i used to believe that the tiny bits of dust that show up in the light were bits of film. I was always scared in cinemas, what if someone ate an important part of the film?

I used to believe that when you go to the movie theaters, the actors were right behind the screen acting out the whole movie.

i used to think that when someone died or got hurt on tv shows or movies, they really died. i thought that stunt doubles were the ones who sacrificed their lives for really good actors.

At the request of my brother, here's the creative writing piece for this week.  I don't think it's amazing at the moment.  It needs alot of work doing to it to get it to a stage where I'm happy with it.  So, just bear in mind as you read:  this *is* a rough draft!

Also, it's not a story, it really is a 'piece'.  It's not concentrating on things like plot.  Sorry if that disappoints!

                                                                        A Patchwork of Old Memories 

The squares are scattered vividly across the glossy surface of the mahogany table.  I softly run my hand along the edge of it, looking at this pile of memories, thinking of the stories each square tells.  I pick up a handful of the haphazardly yet beautifully sprinkled fabric squares and let them slide through my fingers with voluptuous pleasure.  My eyes drink in the neon pink, the muted green, the charcoal grey, the pristine white.  My fingers caress the furry velvet, the soft suede and glide across the sheer satin.  So many colours to arrest the eyes, so many textures to delight the senses.

            But my pleasure in these fabric pieces is not merely aesthetic.  Each tiny, flimsy square has a history a hundred times its size, a huge story crammed into its delicately woven fabric.  I’ve chosen a lot of them myself; some just because I liked the colour or texture but mainly because they represent important moments to me.  A simple blue satin square is a piece from my bridesmaid’s dress, a red gingham piece is from the dress I wore to death when I was 10, and a pink stripe piece is one I searched for ages to find, because it’s like the top I had my first kiss in.

            About a third of the squares have been coaxed, wheedled, nagged, bribed and threatened out of my friends and family.  Each of these pieces also has a story, a reason they’ve been chosen.  Some remind the giver of a certain time we spent together, some simply because a friend has known it’s a pattern I’ll love.  Each piece special in its own way.

            Picking up a plastic bag that’s been sitting on the floor, I place it on the table.  I draw out of its rustles a large expanse of cream cotton and lay it almost reverentially on the table, smoothing it out.  I chose this fabric so carefully, testing its weave for strength, and the way it moved and hung.  Now I lay out my paper pattern pieces on the cotton, pinning them carefully.  I take out the large, heavy dressmaker’s scissors and cut evenly.  They make a clean, sharp sound that’s also somehow rich, filled with the resonances of hundreds of small threads neatly tearing.

            I pin the panels I’ve cut out together and then slip on the fabric, holding the final two edges tight against my hip.  I look at the scaffolding of my new skirt.  The skirt is going to be knee-length, with eight gores to make it full, so it will swirl around me in a wide circle as I twirl.  Its cream reminds me that as yet it’s a ghost though, a glimmer of what it will finally be.

            Stepping out of the skirt, I take it over to the sewing machine.  I wind the thread onto the bobbin and then thread up the rest of the machine.  Carefully positioning the first panels, I gently lower the foot onto them and bring down the needle.  I tense my foot, press down the pedal, and the machine begins rattling.  Pulled along by the force of the needle, the fabric runs along smoothly, requiring only gentle guidance from my hands.

            Outside, rain is gently pattering against the window.  It disturbs the smooth satin sheen of the pond’s surface, turning it into an ever-changing, intricate series of patterns.  The whole garden seems vividly green and lush, drinking up this downpour and putting it to good use.  It’ll be good for the flowers, I think, but I hope it’s not this wet in two weeks.

            Having sewn the panels of the skirt together, I work on the wide waistband and attach it to the main body.  I hand-sew the zip into place and hold up the skirt to inspect.  As yet it’s a bare skeleton, but I like the shape.

            Now comes the finicky part.  I have to arrange, pink and sew each little square onto the base skirt I’ve prepared.  I arrange my multi-hued and multi-textured squares onto a tray.  Scooching comfortably down into the soft pads of the wicker chair, I arm myself with a box of pins and the skirt.  Carefully, I place and pin each square.

            Such a time-consuming task could be tedious, I ponder, but it simply isn’t.  I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks: my chance, my time, my space to sit and reflect.  As I rhythmically smooth and pin each piece, I conjure up the people and memories associated with it.  Soon I become caught up and wholly absorbed in memories.

            It doesn’t seem long before I am pinning the last square in place.  As I do so, I stare out at the garden.  My mind drifts from memories of the past to dreams of the future as I gaze at the familiar scene.  Two weeks from now, I muse, my life will be so different.  In all the memories represented in this skirt – all my life up to this point - no change as big as this has ever occurred.  Yet I am not worried, or scared.  This change may be big, but I want it.  I am ready for it.  These memories have prepared me…

            Softly cocooned in dreams, I gaze out of the window and absent-mindedly stroke the fabrics.  As dusk falls, I shake myself out of my reverie.  Taking the skirt over to the machine, I prepare to finally stitch together my childhood memories.

 

Two weeks on, I am newly married and waving goodbye to my family.  As I run down the path, my patchwork skirt trails behind me; my richly textured past being carried into my new future.

Yeah, not happy with that yet.

And yes, I also know that it's late to be on here.  I'm trying to get myself sleepy enough that I'll just fall asleep the moment I get into bed.  It's v v hot in my room, even though I'm wearing my smallest pyjamas possible!  Can't open the window 'coz I'm on the ground floor.  So I reckon exhausting myself is the way to go!!

I suppose since I'm on here I'll do the next bit of my wishlist.  Let's see.  I've shown you all the socks I'd want from the 'M' range the Sock Dreams people get made for them.  So, moving out into other socks on the website...

      

These weren't actually on the site when I first came across it; they've only been added in the last week or so.  I love these just because they're so unusual!  Whilst all of the colours are great, personally I like the blue best.  The combination of patterns is something I've never seen before and I reckon it just looks so cool.  The website calls them 'Checkered Flags' socks, which I reckon is a pretty good description.  Dya reckon if I bought these I could run out onto a racing track and start the race by waving a leg at the drivers?  That'd be alot of fun.  Although these aren't the longest socks in the world, I love them for the pattern alone.  My only worry is that they'll sell out before I get round to ordering any; apparently they didn't buy alot of them...

These aren't strictly socks; they're stockings.  But they're very very cool.



They also come in black but I don't reckon that looks nearly as good.  Apart from the fact that these will look great with just about any skirt I own, they'll also look great if I layer them over another pair of socks.  Plus, in the rare event of Wales having a hot day, I can cover up my legs without baking to death, or sweating like a pig.

Finally: a pair of socks for which I have only one, shocked word.

Rowwwrrr.



Night night all!

Pink Love,
Emzie xxxx

Next lot of socks then...

This lot of socks are called the 'M40s', though I don't really have a clue why.  Like the M Stripes, they're made especiallly for the Sock Dreams people, so you can't get them anywhere else. 

                                                                                     

Again, these are wonderfully long, and should get close to the very tops of my legs, even if they don't go the whole way.  They can be a little baggy on the calves apparently but I reckon that'll just be an extra comfort factor.  Don't ask me to choose between these colours, I just don't know yet!  Probably my choice will end up being based on the colour of clothes I have, but I'm not sure.  Any opinions?  My sister loves the dark brown colour.  I reckon that, as always, this is because they remind her of chocolate.  She really is the ultimate chocoholic.  If I run out of ideas for what to get her for Christmasses or birthdays, I always know that I can just buy her the biggest bar of Galaxy choc I can find and she'll be immensely happy.

The M40s also come in a 'lighter knit', which is supposed to be better for warmer weather.  I suppose by this they mean that the socks have more little holes in them so the freezing Welsh winds have greater access to attack your legs.  I'm sorry, but Wales isn't often warm enough to require 'lighter knits' in anything.  Nevertheless, I'm tempted to ask for a pair just because of this lovely colour:



Apparently they are 'seafoam'.  Perhaps not completely accurate, as I personally have never seen either sea or sea foam (which tends to be white, or yellowish with a layer of scum if you're in Britain) that is this colour.  It's a nicely poetic description though.  Annoyingly, they're out of stock at the moment.  I devoutly hope they manage to restock in time for my birthday!

These socks are quite popular with the team of reviewers on the website:



Personally I really can't see the attraction.  Firstly, I always think that the big toe is the least attractive toe of all, often being large with bulges.  So why isolate it and put it on display for all to gawp at?  Secondly, they just don't look right to me!  I mean, toe socks are cool.  They look right because they display all your toes.  The socks above give the weird impression that your remaining four toes have fused together in a big clump, as though you have suddenly acquired cloven hooves.  The feet above would not be out of place on Star Trek.  Clippity-clopping along the bridge and occasionally kicking the science officer, as people with cloven hooves are apt to.

Anyway...

I need to go and get some bread, so I can eat some lunch in a bit.  I also need to get abit more Chaucer reading done because I'm not gonna get any more done tonight!  After the Children's Lit lecture at 3 (which is always highly amusing, often simply because the lecturer is not shy about voicing her dislike for children) Kelly, Heather, Emma and I are going for coffee as normal (yay!).  And after that everyone from 91 Moy Road is meeting us at Tescos to buy food, which we will then cook and eat here.  And watch DVDs and have fun.  Yaysomeness. :-D

I'm hoping it'll be as much fun as the sleepover.  I managed to find a way to get my photos on here, so now to delight you, here are two photos from that sleepover...






On another 'yay' note, I got a surprise letter from Lauz in the post today!!  Most nice indeed :-)  Can't wait to catch up with her over the holidays.  And Lauz, I completely sympathise with your nasty experiences and GF, but trust me, it *does* get better!

Right, better get going then!

Pink Love,
Emzie xxx

Right then!  Onwards and upwards with what I assure you will be a veeeeery large wish list!

First up, the 'M Stripes'.  You can have a browse at http://www.sock-dreams.com/_shop/pages/socks_detail_ProductID_126.php, because there are many different colours, but my favourites are:

                                                         

And yes, I know that's an awful lots of socks just from one type!  If i had to choose, it would either be the white and lavender or the two-tone pink ones, I think.  At any rate, these alone should give you some idea of the sheer length of these socks.  They really are like most of my existing socks, only better!  The grandaddies of socks....although to give these socks such a masculine epithet seems a little wrong.  They're 30 inches before you put them on (obviously a little shorter once on), but I reckon this is plenty long enough!!  I'm sure you'll all agree they look very cosy.

If you lived in the US, and so could get free shipping and not have to worry about stupidly and unfairly expensive import taxes (no, I'm not at all jealous or bitter)  then I feel these would also be a good seasonal option:



Although I do worry that anyone wearing these might look at though they were just waiting for the appropriate moment to say "Ho ho ho!  I'm a merry elf!"

Finally, I shall finish up with a fun and bizarre sock.  It's not one I want to own, but I thought you could all have a look (and maybe a teeny giggle) anyway:



So sweet, so Tinkerbell.

And what do you mean, you giggled more at the socks I want to own?  They're not funny at all, I tell you.  This is a serious matter.

Pink Love,
Emzie xxx

From reading other people's journals, and Lauz's in particular, I've gathered there are things called 'dream journals'. Presumably you record your dreams, nice, terrifying and downright wacky in them. Today's post isn't precisely about a dream in that sense...

You see, I've discovered an incredible website.

www.sock-dreams.com

Now, I am fairly well known for my love of socks. Mainly long stripy ones, but there are also some funky shorter ones and longer non-stripy ones in my sock drawer. I've been building up my collection for some time and worked out after Christmas this year that, if I washed all my socks at once, I would be able to wear a different pair of long stripy socks every day for over two weeks.

Impressive, huh?

But for all my sock expertise, I have never before seen socks such as are on this website. I adopt a joking tone here, but my subject matter is serious. I have fallen in love with these socks.

It's not just that they have great patterns, or a wonderful variety of colour combinations in their stripes. Oh no, it's the length that attracts me. You see, many of these socks will stretch right to the tops of my legs *and have room to spare*! Oh, the style and comfort possibilities are endless.

I urge you all to go and explore this incredible site (sight! heehee!) for yourselves, but what I'm also going to do here is construct a wish list. Of all the socks from the site that I wish I could own.

Sadly, I will probably be 87 before I manage to own all of them that I want to, because of the cost. The socks themselves are very reasonable, averaging around £5 a pair. I assure you this is good value; you'd pay the same for much shorter and poorly made socks on the high street. However, there's also a £5 shipping cost, because the lovely sock people live in America.

What's really nasty, though, is the extra amount the government want me to pay just for buying socks from America! I ask you, where is the justice in asking me to pay 12% duty and 17.5 VAT on my socks??? It's just not fair.

Therefore, my 'dream' sock list here is just that: a dream. Though I hope to get some of them for my birthday, in reality I know I will never own many of the socks I have fallen in love with.

Alas for my lost loves.

Anyway, I know people like Lauz will vastly appreciate this site and maybe she could even construct a wish list of her own...?

And in conclusion, all i can say is, I hope there will be socks like this in heaven.

Pink Love,
Emzie xxx

I feel ashamed of my lack of posts, particularly compared to my brother. He has shamed me into posting!

Anyway, first up, my 'Noses' poem. When Rob and I were on the train to his house (going back for his birthday weekend) it was jam-packed. And not moving, because people needed to get off and nobody would. And of course we wouldn't, because if we caught a later train we'd have missed the connection at Hereford. (Which we did anyway in the end, but that's beside the point). I was getting bored, so I thought I'd do something constructive and get a little creative writing done. I asked Rob to give me a topic, and he said (after quite a large amount of deliberation) 'noses'.

So here is my children's poem about noses.

Noses

Noses are like fingerprints,
Each one is quite unique.
From the moment you’re born,
You’re stuck with that one break.
You can stick bits on or chop ‘em off
To make the perfect nose you seek,
But underneath it’s still the same,
Your nose: completely unique.

There are lots of different noses:
Bigger noses, smaller noses,
Noses red as roses, and then
Noses that are good for poses.
Rudolph’s nose is red and glows,
And is why he’s the reindeer Santa chose,
Pinocchio’s nose just grows and grows,
And reaches almost to his toes.

I suppose that with a blocked nose,
You may find your breathing slows,
But an elephant’s nose is like a hose,
With lots of room through which air flows.
And then your nose may cause you woes,
If you snore lots when you doze,
Or a girl’s sweet button nose,
May make handsome beaus propose.

Don’t get upset if your nose is quite weak,
Or big and bumpy and makes you squeak,
Because noses are like fingerprints and each one is quite unique.
And if you have a good look, sneak a quick peek,
You’ll find every person has a different streak
Of the absurdly weird in their own odd beak.

It works best if you read it out loud. I'm still not happy with the first stanza but that can be sorted out at a later date.

Hmm, okay, what else can I ramble about? Well, firstly, the weekend before last Rob and I went into town on the Saturday. Rob hates being in town on Saturday, all the crowds get in his way and he gets impatient. I don't mind it so much. I think it's probably something to do with being a female, the in-built 'shopping gene' must give me greater patience in these situations. And tolerance for crowds in general, unless I'm in a bad mood (in which case keep out of my way or there will be people hurt...). Anyway. Being in town was nice, what with it being nearly St David's Day and all then.

Firstly, outside the Capitol Shopping Centre, there was a mini Ikea showroom. How fun! So of course I dragged Rob in there! (Along with alot of old grannies, it must be said). The somewhat camp sales assisstant person was very nice, smiley and friendly, and said we could do whatever we want to test the beds - even bounce on them. Upon hearing this, I looked at him somewhat doubtingly, and said, "Really?" When I was told he meant it, of course I went and bounced on the beds, much to Rob's embarassment. In then end though I managed to persuade him to flop on a bed, which was a remarkable display for Rob who is not very childlike and extremely self-contained.

Other notable events in town included seeing a proper drum band (is that the term) in Welsh kilts, and, for some reason, bagpipes playing with them. Weaving in a somewhat jolting and uncoordinated manner through the crowds were two multi-coloured dragons. I felt this nice, and showed Cardiff County Council was spending its money on something reasonably worthwile, even if the dragons had been obviously recycled from a Chinese New Year event of some sort. There was also a man doing ice-sculptures. Very impressive, although he was getting sopping wet.

Hmm and then this weekend just gone...
Friday evening I went for a meal with some of Rob's coursemates. It was Rob's birthday. That is, Rob-the-coursemate, not Rob-the-boyfriend. Hmm, this is going to be confusing. I shall call Rob-the-boyfriend "Rob 1" for the time being and Rob-the-coursemate "Rob 2". Anyway, Rob 2 had invited about 12 other people, and although I was really nervous, it went well.

Of course I was nervous! I was meeting 12 new people all in one go! And there was of course the added pressure of trying to be polite, socialable, and pretty so I wouldn't show Rob up (something that as those of you who know me can confirm is quite a hard act to pull off).

Anyway. Rob 1 was nice and supportive and everyone was friendly. The food was nice - we went to Phi-B's on Crwys Road, which I can now thoroughly recommend. I managed to eat all my dinner using only the chopsticks! Quite impressive for somewho who rarely eats Chinese food, I feel. There was an interesting fish tank by the table. One huuuuge fish who seemed too big for the tank just swam around at surface, apparently sucking in air all the time (I feel this means it couldn't be a proper fish). Another interesting one stuck itself to a log at the bottom and apparently had a tail which it twitched from time to time.

After the meal had finished, I excused myself as I had a previous engagement. (Pauses to let the jeers of 'oooh, posh!' subside). Kelly and I went to 91 Moy Road for an old-fashioned girly sleepover!! Heehee it was great fun, even if Mueni wasn't there :-(. During the sleepover we talked an awful lot, ate some food, hopped like frogs and watched some of a film. And I believe a good time was had by all.

Oh, and people also ate some cupcakes that Kelly and I had made. I was pretty useless in helping with the actual cooking bit, but I *did* come up with the idea to dye different bits of the cake mixture. So we had purple, bright pink, light pink, bright blue, light blue, yellow and green cakes. With icing on top, and sprinkles and jelly things on top of the icing. And we wrote people's names on some of them. Aah, we had a great time making them! Although I *did* get food dye all over my hands...oh well...I'm just a messy person...

Oh yeah, also, I got my results and am quite happy: 66,66,68,68,70,76. I'm most happy about my 70, because it's in creative writing! Wooo!!!!! Harhar and John Freeman said my children's story was 'a real achievment', so neh to Tim-Rhys-who-tried-to-make-me-change-it-so-adults-would-like-it-more-silly-man-with-no-understanding-of-what-makes-a-good-children's-story!

Anywho...sorry about that...

I have to go now, coz Rob is coming over and I promised to feed him. If you don't see he or I in the next few days, then begin mourning: he will be dead and I will have gone to prison for poisoning him.

Pink Love,
Emzie xxxxx

Well, I've not updated this in a while. I may ramble a bit at you all later, but for now I just wanted to point you here:

http://www.livejournal.com/users/gerbilboy/

My brother has started a blog. As yet it only has two entries, but hey, take a look and maybe leave him a nice comment! I keep meaning to leave comments myself...

Have a beautiful sock filled day!

Pink Love,
Emzie xxxx

Hello all!

I'm taking a big and scary step today. I've been writing in this Livejournal for over a year now, and despite it being nothing more than an account of my life and some extra random babblings, a few of you have actually complimented me on it.

Thank you to all you generous people.

(By the way, there's a good psychiatric unit in Heath Hospital, you might want to pop along there soon.)

However, my style of writing on here is about to be subjected to intense scrutiny. I've written about my family's trip to Rhodes Town this summer, and it's being handed in as a piece of Creative Writing for my course.

Oh dear.

Wise or not, by 2pm this afternoon, evidence of my bizarre sense of humour will be lying in my tutor's hands. Wish me luck! As the title of this post says, I just hope the class don't compare me to Bill Bryson...

And as I've been promising to tell you all about this summer anyway, here's what I wrote!


Gopher Shopkeepers and Barbequed Sweetcorn

I am reliably informed that university students of any real maturity long ago abandoned ‘family holidays’. This is another piece of evidence that supports the widely-maintained theory that I have all the maturity and gravity of an 8-year-old, as this summer I went on holiday with my family to Rhodes.
For some time we’ve been discovering the Greek islands. Their main attractions are their culture, scenery, weather and, most importantly, their food. Rhodes has many entertaining diversions to offer tourists, and not least of these is Rhodes town. As the capital, it has a small slice of pretty much everything else on the island, excepting possibly the cool calm of the forested mountains. It also has, as you would expect, a number of larger attractions. Quite literally the largest of these is the Palace of the Grand Masters.
This imposing structure has an impressive history to match, although upon first seeing it you might be forgiven for assuming it didn’t actually have much of that. Originally established in the seventh century as a sturdy citadel of a Byzantine fortress, it was modified and extended in the 1300s by the Knights of St. John (whose own complex history seems to contain an equal measure of religious devotion and bloodied swords). They must have done something right in their improvements, because the Palace survived three large assaults; one by the Sultan of Egypt (don’t you wish they could be called Sultanas instead? Far more entertaining that way) and two by different Sultans of the Ottoman Empire. Having proved itself to be solidly constructed in the face of such attacks, the real reason for the demolition of the Palace is both amusing and tragic.
I don’t know much about the Turks, other than that they invented some sweet called Turkish Delight (which in my opinion is not a delight but a culinary disaster) and that they apparently breed women with the astonishing ability to wiggle their midriff more times in a minute than a woodpecker can peck a tree. My somewhat ambivalent attitude towards them was transformed into amazed despair upon learning that they actually blew up what must have been a truly magnificent medieval palace.
By accident.
You see, having stored vast amounts of gunpower in the cellars of the Palace, the Turks then apparently forgot that they might need to take a little care around it.
You might well ask, so why is there still a Palace to explore today? Alas, the answer is not a cunningly concealed time machine but the Italian nation’s devotion to Mussolini. During their occupation of the island in 1939, they decided to ‘rebuild’ the Palace as a summer home for Mussolini. They did try to re-create the original medieval style of the building; however they forgot to re-create the original raw materials. The shiny, new, clean-cut bricks of the Palace means that the overall impression it gives is of a highly-polished mock medieval castle whose real home is somewhere in a European theme park, probably Disneyland. It doesn’t quite have the blue turrets and pink flags of Sleeping Beauty fame, but the effect is much the same.
To add insult to injury, the Italians also swanned over to neighbouring Kos and stole many old floor-mosaics to decorate their Disney-style edifice. If only the Knights of St. John could see their Palace now.
My family was most disappointed to find that tourist guides were compulsory for the Palace. We were informed in no uncertain terms that Exploring On Your Own was Not Allowed, and that attempting to do so would Result In A Fine. So, having dutifully followed a guide around, we left the Palace behind and headed for the Old Quarter of the town. As the Turks hadn’t seen fit to store gunpowder in the houses of ordinary people, the original architecture was reasonably intact and quite impressive.
Roaming the street however, did reveal a certain disparity between attitudes within my family. Dad, who is extremely intelligent (but didn’t decide to pass this on to me) was noting the finer details of the architecture and eagerly explaining them to all who would listen. As far as my sister was concerned however, he could have been saying that the elephantine origins of the Greeks was reflected in the trunk-like nature of their window frames. All her attention was divided between examining the wares of the various tourist shops and appreciating an altogether more human form of Greek architecture…
One of the shops we were all happy to visit contained an extraordinary range of items: cushion covers, bed covers, material of all hues and textures, lamps, sculptures, painting and sketches, and perhaps most bizarrely, carnival masques. In a British shop the effect would undoubtedly been that of an untidy school fete bric-a-brac stall, but this shop had a calm air of elegance and opulence. An air I am sure is carefully cultivated, as it makes you, the unsuspecting tourist, want to purchase everything in sight.
My family soon wound its way into the more modern shopping area, much to the delight of my sister and dismay of my Dad. Whilst walking along one of the main streets, Mum and I came to the agreement that the shopkeepers in this area were somewhat like gophers. They popped their head out every minute or so, searching the street for potential customers (i.e, easy targets with lots of money). The whole scene reminded me of those old arcade games where animals popped up out of holes and you had to whack them with a mallet. The Greek-gopher-shopkeepers quickly became annoying, and I’m sure many of my fellow tourists would have been glad of a mallet with which to express their feelings.
Whilst my sister’s shopping appetite is acknowledged by professionals to be insatiable, an hour of browsing apparently cloned tourist shops appeased her appetite enough to let us head for the old Jewish Quarter. I was looking forward to seeing a seahorse fountain. Our guidebook raved about its grace and elegance and the photo showed the seahorses to be impressively overgrown.
But alas, our trustworthy guidebook turned out to be somewhat misleading.
I think the guidebook photographer must have been lying on his back in a deep hole in the pavement when he photographed the fountain. It’s the only way I can imagine that he managed to make the fountain look twice its actual size. I have a similar photo to the one in the guidebook, with my brother standing next to it. Despite the fact that he is under six foot in height, he is very nearly taller than the entire fountain.
The Jewish Quarter itself seemed much like the Old Quarter and the New Quarter to myself, although Dad diligently pointed out minor yet significant details. Since I have very little to say about the architecture of this Quarter, I will here raise an interesting point. I think my family managed to walk around pretty much all of Rhodes Town, yet we only ever saw three ‘Quarters’. What, I ask myself, became of the fourth ‘Quarter’? Perhaps the Turks blew that up too, but were too ashamed to admit it, and just buried the rubble.
The part of our visit which remains most vividly in my mind, however, is something that you won’t find in any guidebook. Rhodes harbour, the scene of this memory, was itself not amazingly impressive. It was another highly praised guidebook location which left me with the desire to say, “Is that it?” Traditionally, the Colossus is believed to have stood over the entrance to the harbour to guard it. Its modern day replacements, statues of a deer and a fawn, seem poor alternative guardians. Antlers would be incapable of stopping a single ship, and the fawn didn’t even have those.
What sticks out from that memory is a fantastic example of Greek enterprise. At the harbour, and old farmer and his wife were doing a brisk trade in grilled sweetcorn. They had boxes and boxes of fresh sweetcorn, still in its protective green covering, and a makeshift barbeque on the back of a cart. As fast as his wife could strip the stringy green layer from the sweetcorn, the farmer was frilling and selling them. Fresh, juicy and at the bargain price of 2 Euros, it’s the meal I remember best from that entire holiday.
As I ask you to picture the cheerful old Greek standing there as the sun was setting over the sea, what I am actually showing you is the real charm of Rhodes town. Despite its disappointing fountain and Disney palace, Rhodes town remains appealing as any part of Greece does because of its citizens. From the gopher shopkeepers to the old farmers, they’re warm, welcoming and unique characters, and you just have to smile at them.
Besides, they speak excellent English, and so really are the best kind of obliging foreigner.

Hmmmm.

I wasn't actually planning to update this until tomorrow. However, I have just finished doing a quiz, having followed a link from Bev's journal. A quiz called, 'What Age Do You Act?'

Given the terminal inaccuracy of online quizzes and their apparent inability to get anything close to correct about me, I was expecting an answer of either 3 or 81. Taking into account my childish sense of humour and love for brightly coloured clothes, I was leaning towards the younger end of this vast range.

However:

You Are 19 Years Old

19 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

This is most confusing.

It's the first time an online quiz has ever been so spot on about me. It raises the worrying possibility that I am becoming boringly predictable.

Better pogo-stick up the mountain first thing tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.

On a different note, the skirt I am making is coming along nicely. By the end of tomorrow, I hope to have the majority of the skirt sewn together. The skirt, if I do say so myself, is actually looking quite presentable.

I wish I could say the same for my fingers.

Over the past few days, through fits of enthusiasm and misplaced confidence in my hand-eye coordination, I have managed to turn my fingers into little more than oddly shaped pincushions. As I remarked to Rob earlier, I'm sure that if I squeezed them hard enough they'd be sporting a fetching red polka dot pattern.

However, it is helping my typing skills. Due to what is more of a slash than a prick on the tip of the second finger of my left hand, I'm learning type in a totally new way. And the middle finger of my left hand is getting much beneficial exercise.

And to end this late-night post (it's late for me, it really is!) I leave you with the comment made today by my sister. We Medlicott children had been chatting about the Olympics, which Sarah was unaware happened only every 4 years. She then grew interested in the frequency of other sporting events, such as the Winter Olympics and the Commonwealth Games. Finally, this conversation ensued:

Sarah: What about Football Mania?
Me: Football Mania?
Sarah: Yes, Football Mania.
Me: Dave, do you know what Football Mania is?
Dave (glancing in a puzzled fashion at Sarah): Do you mean riots by football fans?
Sarah: No! I mean the big football thing where all the countries in the world play.
Dave: You mean the World Cup?
Sarah: Oh. Is that what it's called?
Dave: Yes.
Sarah: Not Football Mania?
Dave: No. Not Football Mania.

Oh deary me.

Although, I do think we should invent a game called Football Mania. It's too good a name to waste, really. Any suggestions?

Love,
Emma Pink xx

Goodness, it's been a long time since I posted anything here.  I'm afraid this post isn't going to be a huge one, I just felt like doing something to mark the fact that I have just finished (finally!) all my work for the essays and exams.

The Shakespeare exam was this morning.  Strangely, I didn't get at all nervous until 8:30 the evening before.  Normally I'm nervous pretty much the whole day before an exam.  I managed to develop a wonderful technique (which I feel I could market to other similarly overly nervous workaholics) whereby I prepared for the exam but didn't actually accept that it was happening.  So I revised, packed my bag etc, all without letting my mind believe that the next day I really would be sitting an exam.  (Yes, I am insane.)  However, having explained the technique to Rob, my mind unfortunately caught on to what was happening.  So of course I got very, very nervous.  The kind of nervous where you want to run around screaming or tearing up bits of paper and chucking them in the air.  Which of course is entirely pointless and counter-productive, but that's the kind of neurotic being I am.

However, I got through the exam and I don't now really want to think about how I did.  At all.  (<---See?  More sensible attitudes being adopted already!)

I felt wonderful at the end of the exam up until the point when I went into the corner shop to buy some crisps, got out my purse, and noticed my NUS card was missing.

Now, Zara had told Kelly and I a story the night before about how one of her friends had left her NUS card on her desk at the end of an exam.  As she had another exam the next day, she had to waste valuable revision time and money (revision time being the greater loss of the two, let's make this clear) going to get a replacement.  Whilst I sympathised with this girl, I also couldn't help feeling that she must have been singularly absent minded to do this.

And of course, I thought to myself, 'How silly!  I would never do that.'

By now I assume you're laughing and have worked out the end of this little story.  Yes, I left my NUS card in the exam hall.  Yes, I was in such a rush to get out that I somehow didn't notice it on the desk and walked out.  Yes, I am incredibly absent minded and daft!

Moving swiftly on...I've not felt great for the rest of today, very headachy and incredibly tired, but I've managed to finish off the last bits of my essays.  I've checked as much as I can for comma splicing, re-read the essays until what I'm saying no longer makes any kind of sense, and probably wasted a small oak tree with the amount of paper I've wasted printing out pages that have then had to be re-printed.  I feel I should pause and comment about my dreadful wasteful habits, but unfortunately I'm too tired and happy just to have finished to do this.

And besides, I really will recycle it as scrap paper.

Plans for tomorrow:
Hand in essays and library books.
Scream with joy at the thought that I need never look at these texts again if I don't want to.
Go shopping and buy a flooshy skirt!!! :-D (best part of the day)
Have a cup of coffee in Starbucks.
Return home and pack.
Go and see Rob before I vanish the next day.  (very nearly best part of the day.  Very nearly, honest.)

Good plan.

G'night all!

Love,
Emma Pink xx

Just to be random...me landlubbers...



Also check out: http://www.puzzlepirates.com/docs/vocabulary.html. Much fun, honest.


This is Mad Anne Flint, signing off me hearties. Arr.

I've been meaning to update this for such a long time. Really, I got dreadfully lazy over the summer. I kept a mini holiday diary in Rhodes, so hopefully over the next few weeks I'll be telling you all about that.

But right now, I wanted a rant. It's on a rather unusual subject, actually.

J-cloths.

But, only very specific ones.

Now, generally, I will freely admit that the j-cloth is a highly useful invention. It is one that is valued in households all over Britain (and, I believe, the USA also). I have no objection to kitchen j cloths, or indeed frequently used ones in any other area of the house. My problem is with those far-too-common bathroom version.

As j-cloths are so handy in the kitchen, and seem to be reasonably frequently used in the bathroom, many ordinarily intelligent people see fit to place one there. Generally this happens about the same time of yet another small spill occurring in the bathroom. The aforementioned ordinarily intelligent person treks down to the kitchen and thinks how handy a bathroom j-cloth would be. (Mainly, I should point out here, because we are all at heart disgustingly lazy beings.) So they pick up a j-cloth. Upstairs, they wipe up the spill. They then place the j-cloth in some corner, often in one of those strange, never used, soap-holder-things-with-feet. Along with the strange smelling soap from Auntie Jane which you couldn't refuse but could never bring yourself to actually use.

Unfortunately, this small moment in a busy, hectic day is soon forgotten. And so the lonely j-cloth sits in a corner, often glanced at, but never again used.

Frequently used j-cloths, such as the kitchen variety, smell fresh and pleasant.

Not so the neglected bathroom j-cloth.

Briefly used and then abandoned, the little moisture left in a j-cloth becomes a dangerous thing, a ticking time-bomb. The evaporation of the moisture is a slow process. Unfortunately, the drying j-cloth begins to fester. Initially, it is a mildly displeasant whiff. Then it becomes slightly more rank. Then, and this is the key part, it reaches an unbelievably noxious, foul stench, BUT IT SINKS BACK INTO THE J-CLOTH.

Undetectable by ordinary olfactory investigations, the stench is quietly contained within the now deadly j-cloth sitting in the corner.

Until one fateful day.

Say, for example, you have a shower. You're in a good mood, splashing about abit, possibly singing (depending who is in earshot) and quite probably being a little overenthuiastic. A small amount of water slops over the edge of the bath, and begins to trickle to the floor. Now, you *could* reach for the towel, but you'll have to get out of the shower to do it, which you don't particularly feel inclined to do. Suddenly, you spot the forgotten j-cloth in the corner.

You can imagine the 'da-da....da-da....da-da-da-da-da-da-DAAA' Jaws music playing, if you wish, as in your imagination's eye you see the victim's hand reach out towards the j-cloth. The threat is much on the same level as a shark attack.

Blithely you grab the cloth and wipe up the water.

Then you raise your hand towards your face. Half-way there, realisation begins to dawn in a terrible way as even over the jasmine and exotic fruits bodywash (hydrating and moisturing with a rich lather, dont'cha know) you get the first whiffs of the stench.

Yes, dear reader, the sad truth is that even the smallest brush of any part of your body against the j-cloth will result in the transfer of the stench in its full maloderous extent. I can guarantee, even a few hours later, after repeated scrubbings, your paranoid nose will still be anxiously detecting remnants of the incredibly anti-social smell.

And so the neglected j-cloth has its revenge.

And the moral of this rant is:
Beware, my children, beware, of the deadly abandoned bathroom j-cloth. For it takes its revenge on
whoever it can, and the revenge is terrible in its verocity.

G'night all, I shall leave you with that pleasant thought!

Emzie Pink xxx

I have deleted my last LJ entry. I was in a singularly bad mood and I wasn't being very nice.

Am now looking forward to at least part of holiday, ie Greek culture and language etc. :-D

So you won't hear from me for two weeks!

Now I have to go and buy things for the holiday!

Ttfn,
Emzie

I wasn't actually planning to post anything on here tonight, but I have to show you all this! I was searching for people's MSN profiles. I looked for Rob's, putting in the basics of some called Rob Fooks who was male and between 18-20-something-or-other. What the search didn't come up with was Rob's profile. What it *did* come up with was this... The new Rob Fooks! (I hope this works coz it's been a few weeks since I wrote any html!!) Heehee Ttfn Emma Pink