Newness

First off, may I apologise, more to myself than anyone else, that I haven’t written on my blog for a stupidly long time. However I have a superb excuse - my life has gone mad. Not scary mad, with spiders and laughing clowns, but joyous mad… with sunny, frosty days and new adventures.

Also I apologise if this post makes very little sense, there are simply too many things to say and I am exhausted, to my core, but that seems to be a constant at the moment. I’m writing now because, strangely I feel mildly more eloquent when I’m tired… however this may just be a trick my brain plays on me after 10pm where I think I’m saying interesting things, when actually all I am typing is “kjhoa aofuhpiv nvlakdimksf hahaha LOL!”

So, I’ve started my journalism post-graduate diploma. It is excellent. I am stressed and tired around 80 per cent of the time, but I love it. It’s exciting being ‘out there’ finding stories and finally being on a path that I know I should be on. I feel myself actually caring about my work and the opinions of my tutors- which is very new for me! I love meeting so many new people on a daily basis- it confirms the thing that my psychology degree taught me- all people are bizarre in their own little way, and it’s a wonderful thing. It’s especially wonderful when those people see themselves as being completely normal. You’re not, and it’s great.

Everyone on the course is really nice too, I was terrified that I’d be stuck in classes full of Pierce Morgans, but everyone is wonderfully normal and grounded… well, nearly everyone! We all have a hell of a lot to learn in a very short period, and there’s a feeling that we’re all in it together. I don’t know why I expect every journalist I meet to be horribly frank and straight-talking. I blame the media… Or at least, I blame ridiculous films about journalists.

Also I am no longer a love cynic. But I promised that I would never go on and on about those kinds of things, and I won’t. But at the moment I feel painfully cheerful all of the time. Disgusting isn’t it? I should know by now that good news doesn’t sell, but to be honest, I don’t care. I had many months of being a little bit bitter and twisted and despising jolly people. I think it’s a good thing that that’s all changed. All of a sudden. And Sam is teaching me how to sing. I sort of wish I could go and visit myself 3 months ago and say ‘relax, it’ll all be okay’.

Here is a list of things: Eingya, big wheel, monkeys, fireworks and sparklers, African drums, walking, delicatessens, breakfast, new environments, short hand, exchanging books, the piano, flash mobs and Minton tiles.

However one thing that’s annoying me is my ever-growing wisdom teeth. I’m pretty sure they’ve been growing for the past four years, yet still, they insist on squeezing their way through my already overcrowded gums, for no reason. It would be fine if they had a purpose, but I’ve managed 20 years with a normal set of teeth and have at no point thought ‘my I could really use four extra teeth right about now’. They’re not improving my chewing ability- in fact they’re a detriment to eating at the moment. And, if anything, I feel less wise now, due to the agonising pain, I really don’t have much capacity for deep thought. Not that that’s anything new.
My brother said this to me the other day when we were on a bus ‘do you think, when bus drivers get in their car at night to drive home, it feels really small?’ it did make me laugh.

Oh dear, and now I have that overbearing problem of worrying about my writing style. Now I’m training to be ‘a writer’ the quality should probably be better than this. However I have been reading a media law book all day and quite frankly I don’t care. This blog is solely for rambling and not for showing off my writing ability, or lack thereof.

Goodnight!

Lousy with flowers

My favourite book in the whole world is Cannery Row by John Steinbeck. It’s a book I could easily talk about for hours without tiring of it and it’s only a hundred or so pages long. I genuinely think I could fade away quite happily if I ever wrote something that discreetly stunning. I like to think that someday I’ll meet somebody else who has read it and I’ll probably end up dashing off into the sunset with them. But what am I talking about? That’s the kind of wonderful thing that can only happen in Cannery Row.

I’ve just finished reading the sequel of the aforementioned book (Sweet Thursday), and although it is simple and beautiful, just like the first, it lacked something. Which I guess proves that you can only capture a moment once, even a literary genius was obviously trying to catch fog when he was attempting to reconstruct everything that shone in the first book.

I love American literature. I used to have a bit of a vendetta against anything American when I was younger, in a way I still can’t quite come to terms with America as a civilisation. However there’s something so soulful about the writing that has emerged from that place and I find it irresistible. Steinbeck just says ‘even the most mundane of things can be extraordinarily beautiful, and I shall prove it’... And he does. But then there’s also that very American talent of being cold and hard-nosed and simply writing to make a point, but in a very classy/stylised way. That’s why I love Bret Easton-Ellis and Charles Bukowski (even though I’ve only ever read Post Office). There’s this wonderful irreverent cynicism that runs through their novels which I think is just as irresistible but in an entirely different way... you could probably call it catharsis.

The only thing is I’m hugely nostalgic for the past. I wish, more than anything I could jump back to a time of three-piece suits and pipe smoking and lemonade on the front porch. In a strange way I long for it. Life in this century is just far too confusing and busy and harsh. It almost makes me sad that I can never experience the 40s or the 70s as they really were. I’ve banned myself from looking through my dad’s old photos from the 70s, they’re gorgeous in all their aged-red-toned nostalgia. They make me envious. I was born in the wrong decade. I’ve even taken to lighting my cigarettes with matches because it makes me think I’m in a film from the 20s. I’ve mentioned a lot of decades there, but I wish I’d lived in all of them.

I think you can tell from my rambling that I’m longing for ‘something else’. Anything else would do. I’m so grateful for having a roof over my head and a lovely family but I’m tired of life. Tired of life and I’m only 23. The thing that’s always stopping me from going on wild adventures is money. At university it really used to bother me that I was surrounded by people who had been travelling and some of them really looked down on me because I hadn’t. I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry I haven’t been to Africa and built any kind of school, I just can’t afford it. Which I suppose is ironic. And I would say things to them like ‘oh, when I have some money I’m going to go to the Amazon, I’m going to cuddle some monkeys, and you cannot stop me!’. And they’d nod their heads in a patronising way, and well, I suppose they were right to patronise. I’m still here. Still penniless. Still pretty bored.

So for lack of money and in need of newness I’m venturing on a new quest. Hopefully a quest that will bring some excitement and learning back into my silly old life. I want to be a journalist. There... I’ve said it. That felt like admitting a long-kept secret. I suppose the reason I’ve only just come to terms with this is because firstly, I didn’t want my (award-winning journalist) friend Rachel to just think ‘Ella is copying me, the silly bint’, even though I’m sure she doesn’t. Secondly I wasn’t really sure I could do it. But I’ve got some work experience at my local paper this month and I suppose that will decide for me, one way or the other.

I am terrified, but in an excited way. I’m also aware that a journalist can’t afford to be insecure. I guess, like anyone, I like to be good at things... so I’m probably just terrified that I’ll be awful. Also, I have never written a news story in my life. But I like writing, I like rushing around like I’m important, I’m pretty impatient but very inquisitive. So you never know. Maybe it’ll be the thing for me. And with every day that passes I really hope I am good at it. I think some people think I won’t be able to deal with criticism or being heckled, but I’ve put up with worse things. But I’m not kidding myself that it’ll be easy, it’s kind of scary just putting yourself on the line and saying ‘I THINK I CAN WRITE!’ and perhaps I’m horribly wrong. But tomorrow I could be well and truly dead. For once I truly have nothing to lose. Apart from potentially my dignity.

Here’s a quote from Sweet Thursday:

“Of all our murky inventions, guilt is at once the most devious, the most comic, the most painful. Was it planted by the group pressure of the tribe to keep the potentially dangerous individual off-balance? Is it set in the psychotissue, watered and cultivated by ductless glands? Is guilt the unconscious device by which a man cries for attention in an unperceiving world, or can it be that the final human pleasure is pain? Whatever its origin, we scream like cats in copulation, wolf-bay the moon, whip ourselves with the exquisite thorns of contempt, and generally have a hell of a good time at it.”

Wake up

The other week my wonderful friend Jenny bought me a shiny new camera. Her reasons for such a sweet gesture were ‘I know you like going for little walks on your own and taking photos, and now you can do that as much as you like’. It was easily one of the nicest things that has happened to me in the past year, ever since I’ve been taking endless photos at every opportunity. Actually, just before my last blog post I tried to capture the grey-drizzle drenched streets I had been wandering through, but I didn’t post them because they were simply too depressing!

Living life whilst looking at the screen on the back of my camera is odd. A majority of my brain enjoys it. I almost wish I had a camera strapped to my head so that I could remember every little detail of life. Also, how will people know I’m having fun if I don’t upload photos onto Facebook to prove it ‘look at me! I have friends and occasionally go out! Hooray! Please think I’m cool!’ However the very nature of taking photos leaves you slightly removed from what is actually happening with the contrast that you consequently remember happenings more clearly. Also, my photography skills are truly lacking at the moment, but thanks to Jenny’s generosity (JENerosity!) I can practise and practise and take lovely arty photos of sunsets and that. Also it excites me that this camera might be following me on some crazy adventure one day... I can dream!

I’m very sleepy today and as such can’t truly be bothered to write much more... In short the past week (and a bit) has consisted of a kingfisher, a baby toad, an ending-less fairy tale, a change of career direction, the learning of (a bit of) shorthand, drizzle and breezy days, endless cups of tea (both sad and happy), mild disappointments and the legitimate and acceptable drinking of cider in a park. Who knew that some unemployed girl from Derby could have experienced so much more than she outwardly appears to have experienced? I apologise, I lapsed into writing in the third-person then... a symptom of Facebook overuse perhaps? ‘Ella Rhodes is... confused, as usual. lol.’. Anyway, without wanting/being able to go into any more detail, I shall say farewell.

The evening hangs beneath the moon

I have not been sleeping at all lately, not for any reason in particular but I find myself lying in bed daydreaming for hours when I should just be normal-dreaming. Dreams are bizarre. In my psychological studies we looked at a lot of theories about sleep and dreaming but, really, the only plausible conclusion is that they’re just nonsensical images put there by our brains to confuse us. It’s like a challenge ‘try to make sense of that you great big pleb’ your brain is saying.
I like to try and remember my dreams and although my friend Aaron once pointed out ‘there’s nothing more boring than hearing about other peoples’ dreams’, I sort of disagree, and now I’m going to ignore Aaron and tell you about a funny dream I had... Occasionally after a particularly odd dream I wake up and write down what I can remember. One day I woke up to find the following note at my bedside

“Explore things from your childhood- try growing a garden on the back of a tortoise”

Totally bizarre, but I remember, at the time it made perfect sense, it even seemed like quite a profound statement as I was writing it down at stupid ‘o’ clock in the morning.
I prefer daydreams. You can make up stories and scenarios in your head and they can be as nonsensical or as mundane as you like. They’re just altogether nicer. However I do blame daydreaming for my lack of ability to sleep at the moment.
As I’ve mentioned before, I am incredibly impatient. One of my most hated scenarios is waiting for trains or buses in the cold. This morning, after having a final slumber party with Rachel (I’m sorry but there were no naked pillow fights- we mainly watched Friends and sang along to the theme tune. Our vocal performances were very much lacking in enthusiasm by the fourth episode)... that was a long sentence for brackets wasn’t it? I’ll start again. After this slumber party I walked into town to catch my bus. I hate bank holidays, because they’re like Sundays and I also hate Sundays. I walked through Derby in the drizzle, I’m sure that no city can look quite as depressing as Derby in the rain. I then had to sit in a freezing cold bus station for over an hour and still managed to miss a bus, thus causing me to wait for another FIFTEEN WHOLE MINUTES for another one. In short, this whole thing has put me in a bit of a mood.
I’m still cold from waiting in that place and am pitifully cradling a cup of tea as if it was the only thing in the entire world that could make me feel better. I don’t often feel melancholy. I use the word ‘melancholy’ rather than ‘sad’ because I have quite a Victorian and melodramatic opinion on emotion. Some days you just can’t shift the melancholy, so why not wallow in it a little bit? There’s something quite lovely and self-indulgent in just saying ‘well today I’m feeling pretty melancholy so I’m going to sit around listening to the Smiths and just let the mood wash over me’. It sounds odd to say I enjoy these days. But I do in a lot of ways. I think a gentle acceptance of how you’re honestly feeling is quite healthy. And I know by tomorrow I’ll be back to my cheery self.
As I was wandering through the drizzle in a bad mood I started thinking about the simple pleasures of childhood. I remember quite vividly playing for hours in my garden, lost in an entirely made-up world. I wish, more than anything, on days like this my imagination was still so vibrant. I could be doing anything right now! Scaling the heady heights of an imaginary mountain or perhaps (as when I was little) collecting snails from around the garden and making them a little hotel, imaginatively called ‘The Snail Hotel’.
Also there was a time in my adolescence where I was thoroughly convinced that I was a witch. I had spell books and everything. My friends and I formed a little coven and my cat Ozzie became my familiar, he was a pretty rubbish familiar because his favourite things were sleeping and being cuddled- not very supernatural (I've added a picture of him for your amusement). We all honestly and truly believed that we had magical powers. It sounds silly now, but it all seemed very real at the time. But now, in adulthood, all we have is tax returns and mortgages.

Moan, moan, bloody moan.

I realise now it’s really quite difficult to write in a natural way when I know that some people may actually be reading this. It’s like the dilemma you have if you keep a diary (which I do), do you write for yourself? Or do you write with the idea that one day your diaries may be read by your friends? Or worse, published?! My diary reads like the ravings of a very angry lunatic, I plead with my friends not to read them if I die young. I know they will though. I suppose in the case of a blog, I’ll just imagine that anyone reading it is naked. Just as if I was giving a big presentation. Phwoar.
This self-consciousness, even via the internet says a lot about me. In my normal life I constantly worry that I’m in the way (it doesn’t help that I’m quite tall) or getting on everyone’s nerves. But I’ll try to put that aside- as I’ve said before, you don’t have to read this. Also I’m imagining you naked right now, so I win.
This week I’ve been helping Rachel move her ten tons of possessions into her boyfriend’s house while he’s away in Tanzania (it’s okay, he knows she’s moving in... at least I hope he does). I’ve been sleeping at her new place to ensure that she doesn’t get scared or lonely- little does she know that I’m terrified of the dark and in the unlikely circumstance that an axe wielding fruitcake should decide to murder us in the night, I’d be entirely useless. Even more so if the said fruitcake happened to be covered in spiders. We’ve had a fun few days, watching South Park in our pyjamas and having a Game of Life tournament.
This tournament got me to thinking. I’m incredibly, ridiculously unlucky. Not only in games but in life generally. Rachel, when I say these things to her simply sighs (and probably rightly so) but it is worrying. The other night in one of my more emo moods, I made a list of all the men I have dated/been involved with/met and really, really liked, and by these various names I noted the outcomes of each one. All of the outcomes were bad (Obviously the outcomes were all bad- otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting in a single room in my house in Alvaston complaining, with only a cup of tea for company, I’d be swanning around Florence with a handsome man talking about the universe). Reading through that list was just horribly depressing. It’s not just that these things simply ‘haven’t worked out’, they ‘haven’t worked out’ in the most spectacular style. My friends (oh I love them so) soothe me with girly platitudes such as ‘don’t be sad, it’s just that every single man you’ve EVER met isn’t good enough’. I’m sorry, but that’s simply not true. And I don’t think it’s my fault, so I put it down to bad luck.
I’m not just talking about men here either, I’m just generally unlucky in life. Missing a first class degree by 0.85%, bruising like a peach but also being incredibly clumsy, having a deep love of the sea and living in the most land-locked city in the UK, desperately wanting to move to London but being the only person ALIVE who cannot find a job in a city of millions. Do you see? And people say various things such as ‘it’s karma’. I hate this. If ‘karma’ existed, in its truest form, then surely, SURELY one ex-boyfriend in particular would have had ebola by now. No? Or at least a bad case of flu? And I can vouch on my life that I have never, ever done anything so bad to deserve this ridiculous run of bad luck. People may also say ‘you make your own luck in life’. What a load of balls. I really am trying my very hardest to make something of my life but am meeting hurdles at every turn. And I’m no hurdler. I’m just Ella.
And genuinely, this is not a moan about being single. Being single is fine. Yeah, sure, it would be nice to have a hand I could hold now and again. Someone I could borrow books from and smile at the little lines where he’s folded over the corner of a page. But with my luck he’d turn out to be a quite fickle, secretly married, dishonest man who was secretly intending to emigrate to Australia and didn’t tell me because he ‘forgot’.
And I’m sorry if that was a bit depressing to read, and genuinely I hope one day that I can stand up and laugh at the sky and say to the god I don’t believe in ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA’. That will feel nice. But it seems that day is a long way off.

On films and how they are 'great'

Today I went to the Job Centre. Yes, yes I’m signing on, and I’m sorry! I’m sorry to all of you lovely taxpayers who are currently funding my life, but I promise it won’t be for long, and also, I feel like I’m claiming all the tax back that I used to pay. Which is nice for me! So there. (Honestly, despite being an ex-student I have done a day’s work in my life... in fact more than a day, many, many days). It’s so depressing, walking into the job centre as the only one not sporting attractive leisure wear. And the people who work there look at me like ‘oh so you’ve got a DEGREE and yet still, you’re on jobseekers’. They even give me a tiny pen to sign all the bits of paper as if to say ‘you do not deserve a big pen, you don’t have a job and are therefore less of a person’. I hate it. And I am seeking a job, desperately, but it’s not my fault that no-one’s smart enough to give me one. Or perhaps I’m just saying that to placate the department for work and pensions? Hehe, just kidding guys, relax.

However, I have had a glorious day. It’s sunny and I got to wear a nice dress and a scarf in my hair. Also I saw my lovely Jenny and her beautiful little girl Evie. I trundled over to her Grandma’s house and we played and chatted. I love Jenny’s grandma’s house as Jenny and I spent so much time there when we were younger. Her grandma would record really old horror films for us to watch and cook us roast chicken and mash and gravy. I think the old horror films have contributed to my slight obsession with serial killers and are probably the reason I want to be a criminal psychologist. So thank you Jenny’s grandma, for deciding my career, and also for not caring if we watched 18 rated movies when we were 10. Also Evie has just learned how to kiss, it’s probably the sweetest thing in the world.

Films are great aren’t they? At school I had this amazing drama teacher called Joel, he took me and a few other friends under his wing and occasionally after school he would show us some of his favourite old movies- mainly Hitchcock films. We’d watch them in the huge black-walled drama studios in the dark and afterwards he’d tell us some little facts about the film. After watching Rear Window, he said that the kiss between Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly is the most beautiful ever filmed. We also watched The Birds, on a really grey Derby-day, when we wandered outside seemingly hundreds of crows had gathered on the power lines on the school grounds, in the bleak light (I just typed ‘beak’ then! I had to chuckle) it was really quite frightening! I haven’t seen any life changing or wonderful films for a while, please send any suggestions on a post card. Thank you.

I’ve now got to the stage of looking around my bedroom for things to talk about, so to save me boring you with details of the various curios on my desk or the funny way my cat is sleeping I shall say good bye!

Mind wanderings

I’m writing this from my mum’s cottage in Devon. She lives right in the heart of nowhere-land and although I’m definitely a city person at heart (although Derby hardly feels like a city sometimes) the lack of streetlights here makes for wonderful starry nights. Once I was asleep here in the middle of winter, there were no curtains in the bedroom I was in, I woke up thinking a car had its headlights on outside but when I looked out it was just stars, in their zillions, layer upon layer of them lighting up the whole of the countryside. It was one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen. One of those ‘you had to be there’ moments... So I’m not sure why I’m writing about it at all!
Tonight my main topic of thought has been emotion. Aren’t emotions ridiculous? I just watched 127 Hours and (aside from making me want to vomit violently all over the living room) I did cry a little. And as I had a tear dribbling down my face I thought ‘why the heck am I crying?’ I think the uplifting music and vibrant technicolour of the conclusion helped, but I immediately stopped crying when I thought (although the story is true) this is Hollywood. Just Hollywood giving us regular plebs (I don’t refer to you, of course) the hope that our lives may, one day, encompass some of that inspirational spirit that the film portrays. But they won’t will they? Yet still I shed a tear or two. Also, adverts. Some days a sentimental ad can make me openly weep into my tea. Other days I can watch Brief Encounter with a shrug. There was even a dog food advert that made me cry, it consisted only of shots of owners with their dogs and a gentle narrative. Every time I saw that bloody thing I was a wreck for at least six minutes afterwards.
So often there’s no helping how you feel, even if you question it to death. Even if it’s ‘wrong’ in the eyes of some. Whereas on other occasions the very questioning of an emotion can kill it dead.
Love is a funny concept too, one that I won’t even attempt to tackle, firstly because I’m a complete love cynic (despite being a Romantic in many ways) and secondly the greatest philosophers have squabbled over it for yonks and reached no conclusion (they obviously never will but that’s the joy of philosophy) so what chance do I have? Although I shall say this, despite not being 100% sure that there’s one emotion called ‘love’ obviously there’s a whole mixture of things that add up to make us feel deeply inextricably attached to a lover or a friend or a family member. Not only that but our very clever brains even have chemicals specifically involved in forming attachments. Nothing is really subjective, not even emotion, it’s just explosive concoctions of neurotransmitters. So nobody truly thinks with their heart. We’re all just working on the basis of oxytocin and vasopressin and when those chemicals have ceased to rush around your skull, love can just turn to habit. I’m not saying it always does. But I’ve been in plenty of situations when it does. You end up kidding yourself.
When it comes to love my mum is a terror. She thinks I’m going to end up marrying every boyfriend I have. Of course she does, she wants grandkids, and who can blame her? Kids are super. But I was with someone I could have married. I broke up with him just before he proposed (I didn’t know he was going to). And I know I would have lived to regret it. I was kidding myself for 5 and a half years that I should stay with this guy. Mainly because it became habit and I knew that the fallout after a break-up that big would be massive. But why take the easy option? The easy option that inevitably you are going to end up regretting. Marry in haste regret at your leisure. I thank my lucky stars every day that that didn’t happen. However there’s also that ever-present fear that I’ll turn into my name-sake (Eleanor Rigby), and perhaps I should be less picky. But for goodness sake, there’s over 6 billion people on this planet, I’m sure at least one of them will do!
People long for love when they lack it and sadly so many people long for other kinds of love when they already have it. Can we ever really be satisfied? Probably not... the answer? Compromise! Just ignore those irritating imperfections forevermore, reproduce, get divorced and marry someone else. Sorted! As Bo Burnham elegantly puts it ‘Love is a real-life porn, minus all the stuff that makes porn cool’
Told you I was a love cynic. I’ll believe in it when I see it for myself and I’ll write horrible blog posts full of “oh my gosh I just love his silly little face and meh meh meh”. It won’t happen. That’s a promise! If I fall in ‘love’ whilst writing this blog I’ll just pretend it isn’t happening!

I apologise, that was a ramble. I’d probably be a good philosopher/writer if I had the patience to actually sit down and think about the things I write rather than just blabbering out every half-formed thought that pops into my head. But hey, if blogs are for anything it’s for mindless tits like me to have my say in some miniscule way.
I’m going to read my ‘easy read’ book now. Which is also frustrating me. But I can’t leave a book unfinished.
Fare ye well!

A sexy late-night blog post...

WARNING: this blog post will not be in any way sexy... and also it’s not that late at night. Basically that title is a fallacy in two ways. But it is true in that it will be a blog post.
I apologise in advance for I am very, very, very tired and grubby from my day blundering about London which turned out to be a waste of time, the stupid corporate people didn’t like me, but more on that later. I always feel when I come back from London that I look like one of the Chimney sweeps from Mary Poppins, my skin feels sooty. Not like the puppet dog. Just sort of grimy. Not like Wiley. I need this to stop right now.
Did I mention I’m VERY tired? Also I started writing this blog when I was on the train listening to Burial (which always puts me in a strange mood) but I’ll write down my notes anyhow however nonsensical and grammatically cruddy they may be (cruddy is a word I haven’t used for a long time, also... ninny) Errm, right I’ve lost my train of thought. Ah! Yes! I was on the train and I got to thinking (and this is going to sound like I’m completely mad) but you know when you see something out of the corner of your eye, you think it’s one thing and it turns out to be something else? Well that happens to me quite a lot and the strange thing is, I am always mistaking inanimate objects for cats. It’s a very specific hallucination. This evening on the train home something caught the attention of my peripheral vision and I thought ‘why is there a cat on a train?’... it turned out to be a kid (I’m assuming). Not only do I see cats everywhere, I always feel a little bit disappointed when the ‘cat’ turns out to be a plastic bag or a shoe. I mention that because I think it proves that a mind like mine doesn’t belong in a corporate setting. It belongs in some sort of dream or institution.
The interview thing was just a bit silly really, loads of group work and stuff for what is essentially a very individual job. And let’s face it, no-one really wants to be a corporate wanker. Especially not me. I think they saw that I’m a moderately cheerful person and thought ‘NO SHE IS NOT AT ALL SERIOUS!’ and that was that! Or maybe it was elitism! They heard me say the word ‘glass’ and I didn’t extend the ‘a’ sound and that was that! Or perhaps they could see how uncomfortable I was in a suit (pencil skirts look amazing but bloody hell they are stop-you-breathing-if-you-sit-down-too-fast restrictive). Some people just don’t like cheerful people, one of my ex’s friends thought I was sycophantic because I laugh a lot, now I’m always a tiny bit scared that I come across as a simpering fool. Ho hum etc. Anyway, serious people tend to take an instant dislike to me and perhaps that’s why. What’s wrong with laughing though? The world is quite serious enough. In fact here’s a quote from the world:
“I am very serious”
See?
Also I was just lying upon my bed, I think the whole interview fiasco (£100 WASTED!) has made me a bit self-analytical. Me and my dearest friend Aimee always used to laugh about the fact that I really believe that life can be like films sometimes. And sometimes I try to make filmic scenarios occur but they never, ever, ever turn out like a film. All of my little scenarios end badly. My favourite example of this is ‘Handsome Boy’... well, whilst at University, Aimee and I lived across the road from a very handsome boy, and we named him ‘Handsome Boy’. I decided that it would be fun if we somehow made contact with him by putting a sign in one of our windows or something. It took us ages to hatch a plan but then I thought, what would be quite sweet (and a bit like a film) would be to put a little ring of flowers on his car aerial (not a euphemism). So I sewed together some little yellow flowers, and, just like the closing scenes of Rear Window, Aimee (Jimmy Stewart) kept a lookout for handsome boy at his bedroom window, while I (Grace Kelly? Really Ella?...I’m only comparing my actions to her, not my looks, style or general demeanor) slyly crept across the street and put the flowers on his car. It was all very giggly and fun, and we waited for him to see them. And waited. And waited. Three days later they had wilted beyond all recognition. So then I had the scarier task of swapping the old flowers for some fresh ones. Again, the operation was a success. The following day, however (and these are the moments I realise life will never, ever, ever be like the films) I was sat at my desk busy working when I saw Handsome Boy leave the house with a GIRL! The girlfriend then took the flowers from his aerial and stomped them into the ground. Which puts a crushing end to my childish belief that life can ever be as easy and beautiful as a film.
I have so many more examples of mildly filmic, romantic moments gone awry, most aren’t worth discussing for their utter hopelessness though!
I’m going to sleep byyeee

Good Eve!

Well good evening everybody! I’m not a very regular bloggy person apparently! But at the request of my loveliest, most scrummy friend Jenny, I’m going to write right away!
Well, what has happened? The funeral was just horrible! Not surprising really, but as expected, I cried like a pillock all the way through. My uncle was distraught but he had his kids (who are in their 30’s!) by his side and hopefully in time they’ll all be feeling okay. Obviously they’ll never forget my auntie, none of us will, but I just hope they carry on being the wonderful, happy people that I remember.
Today, I have mostly been listening to Cloud Control (and drinking strawberry Ribena) I’m slightly obsessed with their album ‘Bliss Release’ and have listened to it twice already. And I think I’m going to go in for a third listening RIGHT NOW!
So yes, in other news, earlier this week I was trying to find a job in London via the magical Internets. I was getting really disheartened with it, I must have applied for about 6 million things (an approximate figure). Then I spied this clever Graduate Fast-track advert, they’re a company that takes graduates and puts them into advertising jobs...
Again I applied not really expecting to hear anything but I got a call about 2 hours later from this London man and he gave me a phone interview. It was scary and my voice went all shaky! However, despite my shaky vocals he asked me if I would like to go to London on Thursday (tomorrow) and have an assessment day with 20 other graduates, and I was all ‘err... yes!’ so that’s what I’m doing tomorrow. I am fucking terrified! I have to wear a suit and half way through the day they cull half of us... so that’s going to be very interesting! Also, I have no idea what to do with my hair- another problem living solely with menfolk, I can’t ask them ‘oooh so does my hair look stupid like this or do I look like I’m off of the Apprentice and that?’. No, instead I will haphazardly attempt to form my very messy hair into some sort of bun. It’s going to look terrible... Also, suits do not suit me! I just look uncomfortable. But anyway, think of me at 2pm and send me all of your lucky thoughts, thank you 

I should probably also mention the riots... nothing has happened in Derby really, a few cars were smashed up in Alvaston and Allenton, and on my street some badass mother has ripped down all the Neighbourhood Watch signs from the lampposts! What a rebel... But on an altogether more serious note... obviously the images shrouding our television screens and newspapers since the weekend have been utterly shocking but on a more personal level it’s just so sad seeing Manchester and Birmingham being smashed to pieces, those cities mean a lot to me. I’m not against revolution or protest but it’s just so utterly selfish, setting peoples’ homes alight and mindlessly stealing. If these people are trying to make some sort of stand they’re quite obviously doing it in the worst way possible.
I just got off the phone with Mimmles, speaking to her makes me miss the Birmingham people and the Birmingham time. It was the coolest of times, it was the most stressful of times. I wish I could buy a mansion and turn it into a mega-mansion of parties, with friends and a swimming pool and DJs and quad bikes and perhaps a few monkeys... maybe if I get this advertising job I’ll be able to one day!

Sorry that this post has been a bit lacklustre, can only really think about tomorrow. Eep.

Not a very good day

DISCLAIMER- I’ve had ‘a bit’ of wine. I’m quite good at thinking straight-ish when I’ve had ‘a bit’ of wine, but I don’t know if this is too soon in my blogging career to post a tipsy blog post? Is it taking advantage slightly? Anyway, I’m going to stop being over-apologetic, I’m not forcing you to read this... I’m not!
Today I woke up in a horrible mood... and I promise I’m not going to go all emo on you, I solemnly swear that will never occur here. The black background to this blog in no way reflects my mood, only my lack of skills in blog editing. Currently I’m listening to a song called ‘You Said Something’ by PJ Harvey, it always reminds me of my friend Rachel, for she said she would use it on a film when she’s a screenwriter/director. Anyway, back to the point, today has been a bad day. I decided that I would stop smoking today, after reading the INCREDIBLY ANNOYING Allen Carr’s Easyway book. And, as previously mentioned, I adore my family, but I’m too old to be living with them. So I got all tetchy. Like a gruesome teen. Not a proud achievement. Then resumed smoking this evening following the ‘bit’ of wine. I’m hopeless.
Also, and I’m not looking for pity here, I’m going to my first funeral tomorrow (this time in July I was at a wedding... there’s a film in that somewhere). My lovely auntie died on the 23rd of July, and she told us that we can’t wear black to her funeral. So, I’m sure, as funerals go, it’ll be more of a celebration of her colourful character rather than a day of mourning. However, I’m a little bit prone to crying like a prat rather easily, although I know that’s kind of what you do at funerals, I want to keep the mood relatively jolly... it’s just not going to happen. I think, despite everything, it’s just going to be bloody sad. Also my dad has to read a poem (Remember by Christina Rosetti) and he’ll probably cry and he never cries, so then I won’t be far behind him in blubbering. Argh. I’m a bit scared. Scared is a funny way to describe it, but I just am. I guess I’m from a family of relatively stoical working class men, seeing them all cry is going to be so much worse than seeing over-emotional people weep. Every tear will be genuine.
Moving very swiftly on, the strangest thing I heard today was ‘everyone remembers their first newt, just like the first time they have sex’. I also had a discussion about moths and how they would be less repellent if they weren’t creatures of the night and had colourful wings like butterflies. Also, Ingrid, who I am moving to London with soon, sent me a wonderful quote from a book called Sarajevo Blues;

"Efendi Spahic (the Imam of Bey's Mosque), had three children and a grandchild that were killed by the shells that fell on Dairam. Before that, his wife too; as if God had taken her to Him, to protect her. So she would not see. Here's what I think: there are neither minor nor major tragedies. Tragedies exist. Some can be described. There are others for which every heart is too small. Those kind cannot fit in the heart."

And that, I think is a good place to say, cheerio.

Welcome to a blog

I get Facebook, in a way it makes sense, of course we need to keep up with our friends, indulge in the minutiae of their lives and trust that our forms of existence are superior to theirs. However, Twitter (although I use it far too frequently) and blogs just seem hugely egotistical. I have found lately that a small part of me wants to be a blogger, but why? No-one really cares about what I think as much as I don’t really care what others might be doing/thinking, especially not when they blog in an emo mood- there’s nothing worse than reading self-pitying tosh. But here I am. At almost 1am, writing about myself. Worse than that, I can’t justify it. I can’t psychoanalyse why I need to be doing this. Nothing is wrong in my life, I’m in a super mood most days and really am not emo at all... Just perhaps this blog will act as a sort-of-less-intimate style diary. We’ll see anyway. And any of my friends who think I’m narcissistic in ‘doing a blog’, you’re right, but everyone else seems to be harping on about themselves so why can’t I?

To be entirely honest, of late (and it pains me to say so) I’ve been leading a really quite boring life. Days come and go like passing clouds, but the worst thing is, and it’s a symptom of this crazy world we’ve been thrown in to; I can’t think of anything interesting to say on Twitter. I keep seeing very mildly amusing adverts and thinking... can I make that into a joke? Or... shall I just sit here and watch my life dribble away until I, myself, am dribbling away in an old folks’ home? I think that’s it, I’ve found my answer, I’m writing this because, although I have very little to add to conversations these days ‘Oh gosh did you see that episode of Dinner Date where a guy was trying to meet another guy and the innuendos were just slightly homophobic?... No? You didn’t see it?... Sorry to have spoken’ what I do have is thoughts, plenty of them, utterly disorganised and incomprehensible in their nature, but they’re mine, and for some reason I want to write them down.

Also! Living at home, at the age of 23, after 3 wonderful years of doing whatever the heck I wanted at University, is just criminal. NOT ONLY THAT, but I live with 2 men. No women. No women anywhere. I miss women. Can you blame me really? Just simple things like being able to see a nice looking man on TV and say ‘Oooh there’s a nice looking man on TV’, instead of the expected ‘yes, Ella, he is a nice looking man isn’t he, haha, let’s discuss the potential that we will one day meet him, marry him and produce a million of his children’ I’m met only with grunts. And farts. And very loud eating. How can anyone eat that loudly? I just don’t understand it. So here I can tell cyber space about my various adventures and maybe have more womanly conversations with myself.

So there’s the self-apologetic spiel over and done with. Now! What do I say? Well, today I’ve been thinking about books. I do like a nice book. But what I hate, with a deep and growling passion, is starting a new book. Especially after just finishing a really incredible book... which I just have. I read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, and it was insanely brilliant. And now, I feel like anything I read will just be disappointing. I have another book lined up, but it’s one of those books that people say ‘Oh it’s a really good story’ or ‘you can’t put it down’. I don’t really like those kinds of reading experiences. I do, without being pretentious, enjoy a challenge, something that makes me concentrate and think ‘wow, if I could do things like that with the English language I’d just grin at myself in a mirror all day’. An easy read just feels a bit like cheating. And yes, I’m a snob when it comes to books, but only because when reading, we invest so much time in trying to empathise with characters and follow twisty-turny plots, but ‘easy reads’ just do all that fun stuff for you. It’s all on a plate. Leave something to the imagination! It’s easy to tell a good story, but it is not easy to write well (as I’m proving in grand style), authors who do both are the saviours of a boring summer. The end.