One, two, three, four, tryna think of titles is a bore

The trouble with spending all day reading and packing is that you don't get to do as much procrastinating and watching bad television on BBC iPlayer.

Somehow, late at night I transform (think werewolves) into this terrible beast who eats everything in the cupboards, glides around the house with gun-fingers (in case of spider attacks) and starts watching programmes about weddings (a subject I've had no interest in for the majority of my life). Thankfully everyone's in bed, so there are no witnesses. Except the people who read this blog who for some inexplicable reason I have decided to trust entirely.

Oh and I wrote a Taylor Swift parody. SOMEONE SEND ME TO BED.

(I resisted the wedding programme. This time.)

Dana noww, dana noww, dada!

I often wonder, being the crazy person that I am, how I would be described or portrayed in a book or film if the very moment I was living was one of the scenes. I usually imagine it to be an opening scene, because my life is so boring that the only time it would be considered interesting enough to be remembered would be if something mental was just about to happen & I was just completely unaware.

When I'm thinking in books terms, I look around the room and decide which things would be described. The open local newspaper with a hammer lying on it, or the tea stained shopping list, or the empty jar of cooking sauce waiting to be washed up and recycled. How would they describe me? A spotty teenage girl? A young brown haired creature with a strange frowny twitch? Or perhaps it would be one of those weird abstract writers who goes on for pages about my knees or something without revealing my age, location or gender.

Or there's films. What sort of music would be playing? Something like this? Or more like this? Or maybe we're talking something more along the lines of this (more likely, perhaps). And what would the genre be? Ahhh I love thinking about it, which I suppose is why it so often features in my thoughts.

Then of course there's the times when I slide around the walls of our normal terraced house, humming tense music and pretending that I'm some kind of spy in a big country house, trying not to get caught by the old but evil professor who lives there.

I probably shouldn't tell you these things.

PS. I just discovered that I've had quite a lot more pageviews than I thought I did. I recently installed a stat-tracker thing to see who was reading this, and I was quite surprised! Hello everyone x

Help!!

There's something dark in my room. Every time I walk in I am filled with an unending sense of trepidation. My feet suffer earthquakes, my eyes sting with poison. Every thread of my clothes pulls me back, back into the security to which I can never return. My fingers twist into knots like a Chinese acrobat and nerves roll down my skin in drops.

And yet I'm drawn to it like roadkill to tarmac. I cannot pull my eyes back, I have seen, I must continue. I know what lies within, the extraordinarily long descriptions, the excess number of characters and detail, the refusal to tell the story in a direct manner.

Charles Dickens, the things you do to me are cruel.

But I'm well going to finish it else I'll be proper annoyed with myself.

Someone put the kettle on, I'm getting to the end of this book if it kills me.

(it might)

I know I'm a total nerd..

...but I LOVE 'Who Do You Think You Are?'

So I just registered for the free 14 day trial on Ancestry.com & it's soo much fun for a geek like me haha.

Apparently my Great-Grandmother Daisy Agneatha Matthews had a massive family feud with her brother Jack over some land and some candlesticks, and they never spoke about him.

I'm trying to find this Jack fellow, but lo and behold there has been a rather large number of people called "John Matthews" over the years..

I wouldn't be 100% surprised if old Daisy had had him removed from all the records anyway.

Where's MY flipping snow???!

I keep marching up to my window, messily swiping away the curtain and scowling out at the clear night sky.

WHERE THE FLIP IS MY SNOW??

I think I'm turning into Bernard Black.

I just need to work on my Irish accent.

I like music.

I really like singing along to songs. Especially when I'm home alone.

But sometimes, the only way to sing along to a song is as screechily, flat and off-beat as possible. Only occasionally should you get the correct words.

Whining and banging on the table at awkward moments gets you extra points.

Something like this.