A Riot, some Macaroons, and the First Snow of the Year

1. the protest was EVERYTHING I'd hoped it would be, and we alll got really caught up in the atmosphere. My "bankers are wankers" banner got into the news

But when the protestors started throwing fireworks at police horses, we decided it was time to leave quietly, and I ate marmite on toast in front of my shabby-chic friend's open fire. A great day.

2. The macaroons. What can I say? They were supposed to look like exquisite, french boutique gems, but maybe that was a bit ambitious. Our English teacher is completely crazy, obsessed with the motif of the macaroons in Ibsen's "A Doll's House", and harboures a hatred agasinst me and shabby-chic friend. Naturally, being the lovely girls we are, we decided to light up her little face by baking some macaroons. A recipe for disaster.
In the lunchhour we toddled off to Sainsburys, pictures of fluffy pastel coloured cakes in our heads. But luck was against us, and we got distracted. After 40minutes spent eating hummus, pitta and falafels in the famous Falafel King we trudged up the hill to school. An hour later, and I had been set free from french grammar, and it was back to Sainsburys. Blue, green, red and yellow food colouring, some dubiously pungent essence of strawberry, crystalised orange and lemon bits, cooking butterscotch and a flake after that, and we were on our way to mine. So we got a bit overexcited with the colouring, but we were still hopeful.

 Unfortunately the finished result was not so pretty. The butterscotch ones ran into a sticky, flourescent yellow mess, the strawberry ones never made it of the tray they were firmly rooted to, the blue and green st. clements flavoured ones were, as you might expect, just plain weird, and there weren't enough chocolate ones to go round the class. What's more, we ran out of time to sandwich them together with icing. The result? A strange assortment of very flat, very chewy, very bright biscuits.

3. The first snow of the winter!! I can't remember the last time it snowed in november... here's to a white Christmas!

Not a Real Post

"Dobby doesn't aim to kill. obby aims to wound, or even mildl injure"

How could I not have a post on IT?

So. The new Harry Potter film. Or HP7 as the experts would say, although personally I would prefer something that sounded less like the new generation of ink cartridge and more like the worldwide phenomenon Hary Potter is.

So I went to the showcase delux in Bristol, and paid all of £7.60 to do so. We arrived late enough for the only seats to be on the very front row. And I mean the front. So close I could have touched the screen with my little toe. So we chose a seat to the far left in the hope of  diminishing any neck cramps. Mistake number one.

The perspective was offputting throughout, and in several moment a dwarflike Emma Watson spoke to a  brooding, looming hulk of a Daniel Radcliffe. Something inside, probably my sixth sense, was telling me something was distinctly not right about this situation. It took untill I was running for a taxi later that night for it to dawn on me that maybe it wasn't the billion pound team of world experts who had been working on the film that had fucked up. Maybe I'd just chosen the wrong seat.

Despite the inapproppriately chortling 14 year old gang behind us (I say innapropriate not because 14 year olds shouldnt laugh, but because of the moments they chose to practise their cackles) the film was, well, good.

It was fine. Nothing incredible, but a good night and the chance to part of the "making of history", as warner bros. put it. Was it worth the £7.60? Definately. And the neck cramps that plagued me throughout the following day? I couldn't say.

Student Demonstrations in Bristol

Tomorrow is Wednesday 24th November, the date the mass student walkout is planned for 11.00am, and I am taking part! I have never been part of a protest before, and although I'm sure it isnt like I imagine, I am still strangely excited. In my head it ranges between the sort of nitty gritty , were-all-in-this-together, lets-do-this-for-the-greater-good attitude of the miners strikes, with pickets and riot helmets, and the 70s student riots, with dreadlocked students and placard-bearing-spectacle-wearing-librarians-in-the-making women. But I'll just have to experience it for myself I guess...

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#!/event.php?eid=165161463516345&index=1

Me and bohemian-chic-friend have created a bespoke placard, using laura ashley and farrow and ball sample pots my mum had left around - I may not be a protest veteran but I would bet it's the most sophisticated placard there. A new decorator was in our house today, and with his help we found brushes and painted the slogan:

"OUR EDUCATION IS NOT FOR SALE"

on old wallpaper rolls, and in return I made what was pretty much the first cup of coffee I have ever made, which was politely left, full but cold, on top of the piano.
Being an inexperienced blogger, I dont know how to "sign off". It's one of those awkward moments like when you say bye to someone, and then both walk off  in the same direction... do I go for the cheery but cheesy "see you next time", or end with some meaningful and thought provoking comment?
Today I think I'll just finish off with an x.
x

The Day my Blog was Born

The day I decided to start a blog belonged in a gothic romance, the sort of day that would have my english teacher overexcited. It was one of the worst days the sleepy little town in deepest darkest Oxfordshire had ever seen, and to top it all, it was halloween. If Charlotte Bronte had lived to see that day in that sleepy little town she would have said something like this:
"A waft of shivering winds came sweeping down the laurel walkways, and trembled through the great boughs of the horse-chestnut. There soon commenced a pantomime of writhing and twisting oaks and Hawthorns, whilst the wind began to roar down the laurel walk, and came ctampeding towards us. The moon watched through its gossamer veil, and the clouds began to plunge through the indigo skies. I though of Bessie's nursery tale..."
And you get the idea. So, this day was wet, and cold, and windy. I was at my Dad's new house, staying with him for the first time since he'd moved, and it still felt bare with gaping walls. There was no hot water, barely any heating, and so I pulled on a few of my warmest jumpers - I'm loving this years trend for the biggest, cosiest ones around

URBAN OUTFITTERS £75.00

and stepped out to discover whether the only other people we knew in the whole village could offer me more warmth or food than I had experienced over the weekend at my Dad's. But before I go on, I need to get a few things straight:
1) the only other people we know in the whole of the sleepy little town are my cousins. So that's the extremes of our popularity there.
2) BUT the said cousins are the nicest people you could find...
3) ... AND their house is the most beautiful cottage I have ever been in. A combination of beautiful vintage details, antique wallpaper and quirky retro fittings, in addition to some simple, swedish-style furniture, makes for a house that I truly love.

So, on arrival to this temple of all things cool (and seriously, this family make everything look cool. Even the muddy wellies and football boots stacked by the door seem to ooze laid back country chic) I was told that my aunt and cousin were in fact asleep, and that my uncle and cousin were off to play football nearby. But where was cousin number 3? I settled myself and the large table, on a suspiciously beautiful chair, and began to read. I tried to ignore the Louise Body wallpaper, my favourite (although it was not the one displayed

here) and contrated on the times. But who should turn up but... cousin number 3! Known to those lucky enough to know her personally as Agnes, she sat down and we began the sort of conversation you have with 10 year olds, about bullying and boys and weight and the shallowness of tv. Becuase that is the sort of 10 year old Agnes is, extras mature, pc, and incredibly compassionate. Before long aunt and cousin number 2 turn up. Age 6, kitty is almost everything Agnes is not. So, it turns out that a girl is appearring in a few minutes to talk to the aunt about journalism. My response? Perfect. Time to take advantage of the fact that all my relatives do the same sort of things that I dream of doing. It means I have to put up with my Grandmother calling me a "chip off the old block" and have my dad tell me everything he does every day because it should interest me, but I want to be a journalist. To cut a long story short, my aunt recommended starting a blog. This is supposed to show how keen I am on journalism, and when I go to my interview I can say

"I have written a blog for 6 years and have over a million followers."

... or at least that seems to be the idea. So here I am. Online. I have now officially joined the internet revolution. I have no followers, no understanding of how to use a blog, and not much practise at casual writing. But it's a start, isn't it?