New starts and overdue reminders

No postings recently - been busy moving flat (yay), changing jobs (um..), starting work on my dissertation (let's leave that there shall we?). In the meantime I have been making wild promises to people that I will review books and write articles. Now that I have finally found my room under all the layers of cardboard boxes and got my internet connection up and running, it's tiem to act on my promises.

So firstly here is my guest blog for Voices for the Library - if you aren't that bothered about the plight of libraries, read it. If you are, then I'm preaching to the converted.

Act 1, Scene 1, a Wedding in 1986...

Well that's it. I've survived my first show. To be honest I think the last thing I was concerned about was the audience. I was more worried about wearing the right outfit in the right scene and not walking on stage too early, too late - or forgetting to walk on at all. So when all said and done, it was a success from that point of view. I am also getting used to having a weirdly orange face and bright blue eye shadow. I am still recovering from the shock of my flatmates thinking that it is a look that suits me.

Instead of getting changed in the communal dressing room I end up getting changed in behind the stage for most of my scenes. This is not something I recommend. Even as I try and change from one outfit to another, I am helping someone else with their radio mike, and simultaneously ducking so a prop coming through doesn't hit me. So far I've already been hit with a guitar and chair. :)

What's more to the point, that through the greasepaint (ok, orange foundation) and roar of the crowd (ok, clapping and laughter), I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Which I wasn't sure I would. Roll on tonight's show...

Show Week

....and so show week is upon us. Even if you didn't know from the people running around like the proverbial coloured reared flies, you would be able to tell from the heightened levels of bitchiness (male and female) in the group. Amazing what a little powder, paint and a small role in a play makes some people turn into. Dullard to diva. Secretary to showgirl. Then there are all the things you need to be aware of - where X sits, that Y always sits next to X darling and couldn't possibly sit next to B because the lighting is all wrong for her complexion.... Given that we have about five minutes maximum to change between some scenes, worrying about where you get to sit is probably the least of the problems. Personally I am more concerned that I will make it on to stage wearing the right clothing for the right scene without treading on anyone, falling over scenery or anyone else. If I manage that and manage to sing, smile and dance at the right times then that I think will be a good performance. The problems of who sits where, and the divine divas - let other people worry about them.

Rights

Today I am frustrated. Fed up. Tired. Grumpy. Not from any specific reason, more a multitude of reasons that have been lying in wait and have all decided to wait until today to gang up on me. Yes, I know I was upset by the burglary. Today tho, for reasons that I am not going to list here, I'm just rather, well, miserable I suppose. Which is awful as I've got Comic Relief on in the background and seeing people on the information pieces with terrible lives is making me guilty for just being fed up when I have a comparatively luxurious lifestyle. I don't have that right. I want something I can't have. They need something they can't have. Their need is greater than mine.

Wait

Cliche-like the fine drizzle soaked into her hair, beads of water immediately flattening, disappearing into her general miasma of misery. She stood. Waited. In the distance the lights flickered. On. Off. On. Off. On. She watched disinterestedly, as the rain made halos round them. The lights grew brighter, brighter still. Died. The sudden dark made the noises round her seem louder somehow. A twig snapped behind her and she flinched, instinctively whirling round, hand to her bag. Defensive. The rabbit that appeared from the hedgerow looked as surprised as she.

The drizzle turned to rain and was now falling continuously. Now she could barely see out through the wet curtain of her hair. Her coat provided no protection - the layers of drenched wool giving of an acrid aroma of stale cigarettes, reminding her of empty bars and empty days.

Ominous rumble. Flash. Rumble. The street lights back on now. The rumble grew nearer. Nearer still. She looked skywards.

Beep, beep, beep. Loud. Impatient.

"Do you want to catch the bus or not?"

Stolen peace of mind

I got home on Thursday and found our flat had been burgled. I had my keys in my hand, ready to unlock the door when I realised, almost in slow motion, that the door was already open, swinging gently to and fro. The lock lying splintered on the floor of the hallway on top of the pile of post.

I called my Dad on my mobile. Well, actually I walked in, a la any stupid female character from a horror film, doing the same thing that I always tell the characters off for doing. Watching any film I always wonder why the vulnerable female lead walks into the empty house. You do though. I don't know why. I even called and asked if anyone was there. I'm not sure if I expected any remaining burglar to answer me and what I was planning on doing if they did so. It was then, walking up the steps to the living room, standing staring at the contents of the cupboard, ransacked, lying scattered on the floor, that I spoke to my Dad and told him I'd been burgled.

In the living room I looked at a pile of scattered children's clothes and couldn't understand why they were there. In retrospect, once I could think logically again, the children's things weren't that odd - one of my flatmates is a primary schoolteacher and all the items were from a recent school trip. However in that moment I just couldn't comprehend them. It was only promptings from my Dad on the other end of the phone that prompted me to check my bedroom. At first I thought the lock was stiff. Then I realised it was jammed because someone had broken it. Once I managed to get the door open, the lock fell apart and landed on the floor.

Now I know I am very lucky. Nobody hurt me. Nobody crapped on my bed (or worse). No-one smashed my mirrors. Property is replaceable. I am healthy. However everything they took from me had been a present. That I find upsetting. My camera, iPod touch, video camera, polaroid printer - all presents from my family and all gone. Other things may have gone too but as yet I haven't found out. I think my room got off more lightly than those of my flatmates because I am chronically tidy. I could only have made life easier for the burglars if I had actually labelled each drawer with a list of what was inside. As it was I did everything but. Camera was on the desk, iPod was in the docking station, everything else was immediately obvious in my desk. The burglars went through my clothes drawers and bedside cabinet but didn't ransack them in quite the same way they did the other rooms. Presumably because by the time they got that far they'd already got a fairly good haul. My clothes drawers were disarranged with one T-shirt randomly lying on the floor. Odd, that. Ditto my bedside cabinet - someone had gone through it and removed stuff, but left some things lying on the floor. My jewellery was all tipped out of the boxes and dumped on the floor, but as none of it is worth serious money, it was all left. I'm not the sort of person that has diamonds - and let's face it, if I did, I'd be wearing them.

So I told my Dad what was missing. I then rang 999 and managed to hold it mostly together enough to sound like a grown up (calm and collected) while I spoke to the police, then reported it to the lettings agent and requested a locksmith. Then I called my flatmates and told them to come home. They were upset on the phone, then hysterical in person.

The police took ages to arrive - we obviously weren't a priority (fair enough, it wasn't in progress and they couldn't find the flat), then the locksmith turned up hours and hours after that - following several chase calls because he couldn't find us either. It would have been so much simpler if the burglars hadn't found us either. He patched up the front door but recommended we got a new one. Unfortunately he wasn't allowed to fix either my or my flatmate's bedroom doors - both of which had had the locks broken. She got her boyfriend to stay over that night. I slept with my bedroom chair against the door.

Scene of crimes came the next day and took fingerprints - or would have done but the burglars wore gloves. So we were left with lots of futile shiny powder everywhere.

I'm currently left wondering why I feel cross with my flatmates and have come to the conclusion that it is because they expected me to deal with everything for them. I am not the oldest in the flat. I was just the first home. Today I was first home again. I have been sitting here typing this on and off for the last couple of hours and no-one else is back yet. Every noise in the house is making me jump. However I am determined that I won't bow down to nerves because that way I'll turn into Penelope Pitstop, wandering round having screaming hysterics for no reason. I'm not the type of person - maybe I should have run out of the house screaming when I discovered the burglary, but my upbringing taught me to phone the police. I never was meant to be the female lead in a film, more the sensible side kick that never wins the man.

Writing

You can tell when I've been writing poetry as it's usually when I'm in bed, around 10 - 11 at night (hence why I sleep with a pen and paper by my bed) and there will be scattered leaves of an A4 pad lying on the floor. It is true that I am actually addicted to stationery (along with chocolate) and am unable to pass a branch of Paperchase or Waterstones or even better, independent stationers, without investigating what they have on offer. However I would never dream of soiling any of my beautiful notebooks with my first attempts at poems in case it spoils them. For some reason I also have a different style of handwriting for writing rough poetry at night - a slanted and scrawly style which even I find hard to read. It is completely different from my neat and rather upright (uptight) every day handwriting but this can't be anything to do with speed writing as I use my every day handwriting for lecture notes at University on a weekly basis with no problems. It is just habit and it works for me.

Take this evening for example. I've managed a couple of poems and a couple which have the potential to either work or to be drivel - they could go either way. Hard to tell. There could definitely be something workable there. I'll have to put them away and maybe get them back out in a couple of days. Meanwhile I'm going to bed surrounded by sheets of cotton and sheets of paper.

Night all.

Ice Ice Baby

Lecture today from the British Library. Very interesting but slightly marred by the freezing air con which turned what had been an admittedly warm room into one of the lesser known regions of the North Pole. I would not have been surprised if a Polar Bear had wandered in at some point during the talk. That said, as the room was quite full, if one had done so there wouldn't have been anywhere for them to sit.

We got to hear all about the British Library's vision for the future, and given that I have visited it quite recently, I could envisage it quite well. It does look and sound like a lovely place to work but I understand there's a hiring freeze on. Appropriate given today's lecture room temperature.

Chameleon

I don't know whether it is to do with being deeply unfashionable in my teenage years (that said, isn't everyone?) but I tend to go for camouflage. I don't mean that I troll round wearing desert fatigues and combats in the Kent town where I current reside (though to be honest I'm not sure that would actually cause anyone's eyebrows to raise), but that I use my clothes to hide. When I can wear what amounts to a uniform, I will. For work this amounts to black trousers and a top of some description, for home, it's jeans. To think that I spent my formative years wearing my school uniform skirt short, my shirt untucked and my tie the wrong way round in an attempt (along with everyone else in my school) to stamp some personality on it. As the crowd in The Life of Brian shout "I'm an individual!"

Except... except that now I have lost weight I am rediscovering clothes. Kind of. I am not exactly rushing out and wearing mini skirts to the office (too draughty, too impractical and too difficult to sit with your legs curled up under the desk in what is frankly a DVT threat but oh so comfy). Yet I am now thinking more about what I wear and how I look. Yes, you will still find me in jeans, but sometimes, just sometimes, I'll maybe surprise you.

Jasper - a jewel worth queuing for

So today Kate and I went to hear Jasper Fforde talking about his new book 'One of our Thursdays is Missing'. As usual he was interesting and came across as the sort of person you would really like to have at a dinner party. It does make me vaguely wonder how much of this personality is an act 'JF the author' and what the real person is like - or if he is really as he seems. I never really question interviews with actors in papers, I just assume that they are as they portray themselves.

Anyway the excerpts that Jasper read sounded brilliant and I am looking forward to reading the new book (I am obviously not a complete JF addict as I haven't put down my current book to read it!). Could possibly have done without his comment when he was signing and stamping the books about being a frustrated librarian though...

Mr(s) Messy

There are many benefits to sharing a house but there are, however, equally many - or possibly more - drawbacks.

After sharing this house with these flatmates for some months, I was coming to the conclusion that perhaps I was an incredibly, scary neat freak - however yesterday I met up with a friend who I shared a house with at university for several years and she pointed out that I wasn't. She'd lived with me and while I was quite tidy, I wasn't anywhere near as tidy as she was. She also didn't think I was mad. Then I described the house to her.

The living room is permanently covered in the wet washing of one flatmate (everyone else manages to get their stuff to dry in their bedrooms, despite their rooms being smaller than hers). It gives the place such a lived in touch, having the living room resembling a laundry. There's that, the fact that all her work is always strewn across the dining room table so you always have to move her stuff to eat there. Admittedly she says that's fine, just shove her stuff out of the way but tbh I think it's kind of missing the point. Surely if it ever occurred to her to clear up after herself then I wouldn't find myself daily clearing a path for myself in order to use a work surface in the kitchen, trying to ignore the mountainous pile of washing up (and if she actually does that, she ignores the towering pile on the draining board as she has never cleared that - I think she believes that fairies do that), emptying the washing machine so I can use it because her washing has been in it for two days, moving her stuff so I can use the table..

However this is all my problem because no-one in the house is bothered. I have been labelled as a neat freak by her and my other flatmates who just accept and add to the mess. Even my ex who isn't the tidiest guy in the world was shocked by the state of the place.

I think I will need to either find a place where I share with someone normal or live alone...

Fame

Recently I have joined an amateur dramatic society. In doing so, I have discovered several things. It is very different being a mover than it is being a dancer, being a singer is different to being a mover and it is extremely frustrating joining the cast late when everyone knows everyone else and all the parts have been given out. I was already aware from years of hiding my (lack of) dancing prowess in large groups of fellow females that I wasn't going to be a star dancer. These dancers are always at the front of the stage in any appropriate (and not so appropriate) song showing off their moves. The movers on the other hand are allowed to bumble along at the back doing simple repetitive actions as long as they don't get in the way of the dancers. Oh and everyone has to sing at the same time. Now singing and dancing (or rather moving) has never been a problem for me before - at clubs, in my room, whatever, but when I realised I actually had to do the same movements at the same time as everyone else I came to a grinding halt. Which is where I currently am.

Learning the songs isn't really a problem - I have the music (yes, I know I technically can't read music but I can feel where it goes if you see what I mean) and I also have the Broadway musical soundtrack, which is the version we are doing. So that's fine - or at least it would be, if people made a final decision on whether we were singing something, or if it was going to just be the dancers singing it, or the principal cast members...and so it goes on.

Hopefully by the end of all this we should have a great show. I really hope so as it's on for several days, including a matinee.

The day afterwards I'm singing Faure's Requiem.

Always was a glutton for punishment

Six months on

Well I have been sadly neglecting this blog. Sorry. Not intentional but I've been doing other stuff (assignments and reading for my Masters, reading for fun, and rehearsals for the amateur dramatic society I decided to join in a moment of pure insanity). So six months on is everything in the flat all lovely?

Since my last posting, nothing has really changed in the flat (things that didn't work still don't, things that might have been working now probably don't). I've gone from writing cross emails about it to being resigned about the situation. There are only so many times that you can ask for someone stop water coming through the living room wall. However I have said on Twitter and to people I know that are thinking of renting, not to use our lettings agent and mentioned the treatment (or lack of) we've had. So yet again I will be looking for somewhere to live this summer, me and my bookcases.

In the meantime I'll be working on my dissertation. My plan is to write one on libraries and librarians in contemporary fiction - although at present I am still working on my proposal. I have never had to write a dissertation before and am feeling more than slightly intimidated. When I was in the first year of my Masters the dissertation was aeons away - I could barely see it, and so it didn't worry me at all. Now it is here and the final term finishes in six weeks. It is only after the end of term that the proposal is due - and although we will have supervisory meetings, we won't actually have that much contact with anyone. I am already nervous and I know that I am not the only one. I am not sure if this is a comfort or not tbh.

So think of me, writing these two final assignments, then facing the monumental dissertation. It'll be fine, I know it will, but atm my brain is having a problem accepting it.