Challenging Pople at Physics

Well, “Lor” and Christopher are finally finished. I have to give credit to the writers for the scene with Lorelai at Chin Chin’s funeral (poor Chin Chin! Poor Michel!), because that worked, I thought. Also, whilst I wasn’t too keen on the whole “I need you to know that - you’re - you’re the man I want to want” thing, I loved the bit where Chris said: “I’ve been asking you to marry me for twenty years. We’re finally married, and I still feel like I’m asking.” You could write a book of quotes that just sum up Chris entirely. For instance, “Every time you come back, Mom’s crying and you’re not being there.”

If only I could sum up what I wanted to say like that. Woe is me.

So, in other news, I have been thinking about those moments in life that when you later turn into a super-villain, people look back and pinpoint it on that moment in fifth grade when you got pushed down the stairs by the most popular person in school, or something like that. Those moments that build up such a resentment inside of you that you feel like throwing trains around. That make you so frustrated you get thrown out of anger management classes for being too angry, like Jade Goody. When you feel humiliated, and small, and like listening to Pink (I’m a hazard to myself…etc.).

Then I was thinking about Disney Princesses (as you do) and how when you’re little adults are always trying to shove them into your face as being perfect, and wouldn’t you love hair that shiny, or to be able to dance like that, or to be able to sing so prettily. And they are perfect. But as you grow up you realise that you are never going to be perfect, which is a bit depressing to say the least. This is where Nickelodeon comes in (for me at least).

Every single half-hour slot on that channel is filled with a tween/teenager who does something stupid, gets into a ridiculous situation, and then has to get themselves out of it. For example:”Oh no! I turned my boyfriend into a frog / lost my job / ran my hand through a random boy’s hair / dropped spaghetti over someone who wanted to promote my father / accidentally flew my sister out to Hollywood! Bummer!” But then we learn an important lesson, and everything is fine. Instead of the Disney perspective where there is a villain who is out to get you, despite your perfection, generally the problems are caused by the person themself.

Which is much more realistic. I mean, how many of us are lucky enough to be born with our own mortal enemies? Very few. The rest of us have to work for them. By, say, having a bag that is too large, or getting slightly too excited when the school bus comes around the corner in the mornings. Or singing all of the time, because that’s the way I was brought up, dammit!

So as the friendly, cheesy, predictable magic teacher on Sabrina showed, you don’t blame babies for falling over when they’re learning to walk. And all of us teenage witches should be allowed to make mistakes too.

Oh, and I updated my Virtual Gilmores, if you’re interested.

Absolutely unbelievable.

Does nobody want us to learn? Our school is now pretty much officially the wimpiest school in the whole county. How many inches of snow are there on the ground? Oh, yes, that’s right, zero. None. Nada. Zilch.

And ice, yes, so it’s slippery, but we would all have driven in it quite happily if it were before Christmas.

And don’t think I’m finished with you, mother nature. You’ve taken this too far. And I will take revenge when you least expect it. Mwah ha ha ha ha!

Well, thanks for all of your help last night, mother nature. I am adding this to the list. Along with the time it rained to whole week I was on holiday, the many D of E expedtitions in the freezing cold, the times when it has been lovely weather when I was meant to be doing my coursework. Not to mention the whole bumblebee thing that I probably shouldn’t go into.

But see if I care.

It’s not like I haven’t been very nice to you in the past. I mean, what with the tree planting and all. Also helping all those snails in primary school. And stopping people from chopping worms in half. I thought we were friends. I guess not.

Part I

“So Mary and Joseph schmuddered to Bethlehem.” Schmuddered? Travelled, maybe? “And upon their SCREECH they SCHREECH…”

Hmm. Interesting. A child-sized donkey with its head facing backwards bowed down to the baby Jesus, its nose pointing in the air. Several tinsel-laden angels were rustled off of the stage by your stereotypical Sunday-school teacher. I leant forwards at a rather uncomfortable angle to prevent the little girl behind me from setting my coat on fire with her candle.

Yes, this was Christmas Eve, and I was amongst the 600 people crammed into a Biggleswade church to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Not because this was something I really wanted to celebrate. Not because I believe in God, or had an uncharacteristic desire to watch smallish children stumble their way through another nativity performance (although it was pleasing to see that the middle angel from last year had been upgraded to Mary).

No, I went because my family were going, and I go every year, and, well, I have a new policy of GOING to things. And so I was part of that group of people who only go to Church at Christmas and are therefore hypocritical and smelly. But it’s nice to be part of something.

Part II

After a space has been found for the bread sauce and the sausages, the carrots and brussels sprouts have been pushed onto one dish and the potatoes have been counted and shared, we progress onto our discussion of our 3 annual topics.

Supermarkets:

“I got these in Safeways last year and they were very good”, “So I had to go back downtown to get the giblets”, “Oh, I know Asda. I went to one in Yeovil once.”

Timing:

“So then I had got the turkey in the oven by 9:30″, “And I’ll have to be at the station by half past two”, “I think we’d better leave at six o’clock.”

And the firm favourite for the past 5 years: Charles and Camilla. Like every year, Dad jokes “there were three in that marriage” in a convincing impression of people sitting at the table. They, of course, take him seriously, leading into round two: We Hope He’ll Never Be King. Leading to my grandmother’s description of the time she saw Prince William’s chest, then the “documentary” she saw about Charles and Camilla. Mum points out it was a drama. Grandma says that nobody denied anything. Dad says “haven’t we been lucky with the weather?” I say “shall we download the Queen’s speech podcast?” Both of us are ignored. Now a new variation on the same topic: was Diana’s death accidental? “He was three times over the limit.” “But they did the DNA tests on the wrong person’s blood.” “I don’t believe in DNA tests.” “Charles might not be Harry’s father anyway?” “Did you know he’s actually called Henry?” My comment is neither ridiculous or controversial, so I am ignored. “I just hope that Charles is never king.”

Part III

We have handed out the cold turkey sandwiches, decided who has to sit on the stupid fold out stool and poured the wine. My dad raises his glass.

“To King Charles!”

This does not go down well.

Part IV

My Grandfather looks at me. “Are you sending love letters?”

“No.”

“Love letters to your boyfriend?”

“No, Grandpa, this is an iPod. You can’t send messages. You can just listen to music.”

“But you haven’t got any headphones in.” He looks at my Grandma. “She’s sending love letters again.”

“Look, this is just an iPod. You can listen to music, or play games, or look at photos, but you can’t text and you can’t email and you can’t send love letters either!”

“Look, she’s sending love letters. Little girls never used to have boyfriends when I was young.”

Which I know for a fact isn’t true.

Part V

Snow White is being suffocated by her corset, but all the birds do is pick her up and skate across the ice with her.

The little boy in front stands up, completely blocking my view. I don’t care. This is the biggest waste of time. Ever.

My mum looks across at me. “What do you think?”

I don’t answer, but pretend to be engrossed in the boy’s head in front of me.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s sending love letters to her boyfriend.”

HOW? HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE? WITHOUT THE AID OF ANY MEANS OF COMMUNICATION. I AM NOT SITTING IN A THEATRE, STARING AT RUSSIAN GIRLS IN BIG DRESSES SKATING AROUND AND SENDING TELEPATHIC MESSAGES TO MY BOYFRIEND!!!!!

And so that was my Christmas, ladies and gentlemen.

Depressed. Tres depressed. Sehr depressed. 

See, I am multicultural. Unlike my savoury pastry product, unfortunately.

I’m not actually depressed. I am just sad. I am doing my physics and listening to Christmas music. I am actually listening to Fairytale of New York. Jen, do you remember once we were at your house for a sleepover (Christmas or otherwise, can’t remember), and I made you play that song over and over again? Well, I did. And do.

Song change. Tom Jones. Great.

I was just thinking about how when you’re small you know how life is and you know that one day it will change but it won’t be next year or the year after or the year after or the year after. And you feel as if it won’t ever come, but you think to yourself that when it does you will be ready for it.

Well, I feel like next Christmas things will be different somehow. And I don’t feel ready for it.

Song change. Kylie Minogue.

I mean, I won’t still be at school. That’s crazy. I’ve been at school my whole life. And whilst, if things go how I want, I’ll probably be in education for years and years, it’s not the same. When did I stop bringing in fun-sized Mars bars for the class on my birthday? Years ago, I know, but it doesn’t feel like that long since I was standing in Sainsburys in a panic because I didn’t know how many people liked Milky Way bars. 

Song change. Samantha Mumba.

There’s another thing. Whatever happened to Samantha Mumba? Plus, I’ve outgrown all of my favourite characters in books and on tv. Ben recorded As Told By Ginger for me, and I used to look up to her and think she was really old. By the time Mia graduates from high school I’ll have a sixteen year old of my own. I used to be three years younger than Harry Potter. I’m forgetting how to play the guitar. Samantha Mumba is not a good singer. 

Didn’t you always think that when you were older you’d be, well, perfect? Like you’d be a…song change. Spice Girls. Yes, like you’d be a Sporty Spice or a Posh Spice or a drama person or a maths person and everything would be great. And all of these people in my head always used to walk really fast. I think we may have hit on something there. But, no, for example, I’m quite a sciency person and you’d think I’d therefore know how a pendulum works. BUT I DON’T! I DON’T GET IT!!!

Song change. Elton John. That’s pushing it a bit too far. 

I’m going to go and see if Wikipedia can save me.  

If you were to say to me this morning: “How goes you, Sophie?” then my probable response would be: “Gnyarghah.”

I still have a cold.

It has got worse.

I have a nosebleed.

I am very tired.

I need another tissue.

But hey, enough about me. How goes you?

It’s the centre of London in the weeks before Christmas. It’s all of humanity pouring out of shop doors, it’s the bobbing and weaving between display stands, it’s the fact that everyone, everyone, is trying to sell you something. It’s the slither of whispers as you get off the train. Like snakes. On planes and trains, and the way your heart stops when the tube train grinds to a halt between platforms. It’s hearing the trains whoosh by you on either side, and the clattering of the windows and sitting in the dark and feeling like you’re going to die. It’s the way you have to hold on to your bags really tight, and the way nobody smiles and the way that people run into the road, knowing the buses won’t hit them. And who cares if they do?

It’s the way that your mother, your aunt, from a small Lincolnshire town, magically know which bus and which hurtling, joggling train to run for. The way that everyone is a superhero, and everybody’s nobody, and everything happens so quickly that you don’t get left behind, and everything is loud and fast and alarmy, and did I mention that they have snakes on their trains?

It’s the way that you go into a department store and it feels like home because everything is exactly the same, exactly, and the way that there are trains that dive off into the burning sunset over a city of fire and it’s the end of the world and it’s wonderful. And the way that people run for the tube even though there’s another one in three minutes, and the way that everyone is doing something important, selling, selling, and the way people don’t talk, don’t smile, and greet an old friend with a handshake, and it’s everything I hate and it’s everything that scares me and it’s everything that makes me want to cry.

But I love it.

Question: When do problems stop being boy troubles and start being man troubles?

When does it stop being homework and start being research?

And when does playing grown up become being grown up?

When does boring become responsible, and unusual become unique and popularity (hopefully) just sort of disappear?

At what point is it no longer acceptable to spend social gatherings in front of the computer with the kids?

When do you have to move to the grown up table?

How long is it before we’re all up there, discussing the illnesses and deaths of old work friends?

When do we have to start wearing suits?

And when are jeans no longer an acceptable default item?

And at what stage are scuffed shoes no longer endearing?

When do you get to decide when you go to bed?

What you want to eat?

How you want to live?

When do you stop being who you are and become who you should be?

Thoughts?

So, today my family decided that since it’s such a nice day and hey, isn’t it a shame about global warming, we should go out and “enjoy” it. So they decided that we should go to Burford. We got in the car, me in the far back, got stuck behind a cyclist and drove for over an hour to get there.

Then we went into one of those pubs that are meant to be charming but really are dark and dusty and have over one thousand mugs hanging from the ceiling. Even though we were the only people there, my dad went up to order and did that thing where you relate things back and forth like this:

Dad: One cheese and pineapple roll.

Vendeuse: On white or wholemeal?

Dad: On white or wholemeal?

Grandpa: Wholemeal.

Dad: Wholemeal.

Grandma: He said wholemeal, Lindford.

Vendeuse: Two wholemeal?

Dad: Did somebody else want wholemeal?

Mum: No, Dad wanted wholemeal.

Grandma: Yes, Dad likes wholemeal.  

Etc, etc. for 6 meals.

Then this man came in with two huge dogs and he and the strange, lurking woman did that charming ‘wow we know each other because we live in the countryside’ thing. The dogs licked everyone’s hands, which was disgusting because they were eating, and the chef came out to have a discussion about the dog man’s wife.

Then, we were looking out of the window and a cycling race came past. The cyclists decided that they wanted to have a meal, and so came in and cramped the whole place up and talked about cycling and stroked the dogs. And then the food came and about twenty people advised me to cut my roll in two to stop the tuna mayo from falling out.

Why is my family even allowed to eat out in public?