...think pessimistically. Then it's never so bad.

For anyone who doesn't know, this coming Thursday is GCSE results day.

I've been getting "don't worry, you'll be fiiine" from all sides - but you know what? I am worried! I'm freaking out! I'm terrified!

Gah.

Last night I was thinking about what I'm likely [likely, not hoping] to get, and I think I'm settled on five Bs, five As, and an A*. That's not too awful, right?

:(

...GOODNESS ME

I met this guy called Jack yesterday, at Soul Survivor, at the washing up bowls. We were both on cleaning duty, and he was doing the thing where you spend ages drying a single spoon in order to look productive without actually doing anything. I clocked him, and our conversation went something like this:

Me: You going to actually do something?

Him: Nah, can't be arsed.

Me: Touche.

Him: I'm Jack.

Me: Katherine.

Him: Cool. [Wipe cutlery] So, you had fun this week?

Me: Yeah! It's been great!

Him: What's been the best bit?

Me: Um... [Really thinks about it] I... don't actually remember.

Him: Right... [Clearly thinking I'm mental]

Me: I'm sorry, I'm literally the worst person in the world to try and have a conversation with.

Him: Haha, it's alright.

Me: Give me a hug. [Hug]

Him: [Thoroughly weirded] O...kay.

Me: Mhmm. I'm going to pretend I have somewhere I need to be.

Him: Fair enough.

Me: We should try having another really awkward conversation like this sometime.

Him: We should.

Me: Byee. [Exeunt]

What the hell is wrong with me?!

[In case you were wondering, which you weren't, Jack's roughly my age and really quite hot. Which makes the above conversation my pitiful attempt at flirting. And the incident later that day when we passed in the street and I addressed him as "awkward conversation guy" - flirting. If I was that way inclined, I would have bashed my head against a spiked wall many, many times immediately afterwards.*]

Anyway, this is just a rather unwelcome preview of the kind of conversations I'm going to be having left right and centre with strangers when I begin my new school in - oo - LESS THAN THREE WEEKS. Anyone else terrified? No? Just me? Ahhhh, I'm scared. If this is the way I go about talking to all strangers then I am, to put it eloquently, monumentally bollocked. I'd like to think I'm less of the brick wall I was a couple of years ago; I'm less insecure, I've gone up a bra size [just one, depressingly], I know how to stand out in a crowd, etc - but all the same. What's worse, the girl who sits meekly in the corner with her mouth taped shut, or the girl who, by some cruel trick of nature, is obliged to make a tit of herself at every opportunity? Dude.

*Whatever the hell I did worked, I got his number anyway. My guess is, he felt sorry for me.

Quote of the day: Ahh! Wasp! Kill it! No, don't kill it! Trap it! It's after the jam! Get it! NOT ON MY PLATE YOU BASTA- oh right, fine, use my plate why don't you. Well now it's trapped. What now? Shake it! NO! I forbid you to - you shook it. Don't let it go! It's angry! Gerry's angry! You named the wasp? Hell yes I did! Well what now? He's angry, we have to kill him. How do you plan on killing him? I dunno, he'll suffocate eventually. You can't suffocate him! That's inhumane! I KNOW! I'll drown him in the washing up bowl! Aww come on, don't do that! I'm doing it! ... Done it! You drowned him? Yup! You sure he's dead? Yup! You scooped him out of there? Um... I can't see him, there's bubbles in the way. Hey! That should be his name! Bubbles! [The people on my camp at half seven this morning around breakfast when apprehended by a wasp.]

NB - I just read this through, and realised that how I've portrayed Jack is inaccurate. I've inadvertently made him out to be a lazy, wasp-murdering, monosyllabic bastard, but he's not. He actually seems like a really nice guy.

...express yourself through the power of words!

The following is a result of boredom on the train from Dundee to King's Cross. Try not to explode with the randomosity. It doesn't have a name, think of something appropriate.

One day I came across a 

Pretty little Scottish animal.

She said her name was Zenith,

And she was a Harty.

She said she hated nothing,

Because she loved everything.

Her back legs were long and spindly,

And her front two were short and skinny.

She was roughly potato shaped,

With curly pink fur and eyes.

"I'm here to end world destruction!"

She informed me chirpily.

She climbed to a mountain's summit,

So her words could be heard by all.

I was her only audience,

But that didn't deter her.

She reached the mountain's top,

And began to turn around.

She fell headfirst over her front legs,

And tumbled into the path of an oncoming train.

Moral of this story:

Evolution is a bitch, and not to be trusted.

And, because I sank even deeper into the murky waters of boredom, I drew a picture! Not in colour, but, for the first time ever, what I drew vaguely matched the image I had in my head.

Harties forever.

Quote of the day: The supreme irony of life is that hardly anyone gets out of it alive. [Robert Heinlein]

...that's really too bad.

Quote of the day: Don't take my photograph, 'cos I don't want to know how it looks to feel like this. [Newton Faulkner]

Sort out your damn priorities.

Two days ago, a modern fundamentalist Nazi killed over ninety Norweigan people.

Yesterday, Amy Winehouse died.

Channel 4 news: "Our top story today: pop singer Amy Winehouse, aged twenty-seven, has been found dead in her London apartment. In other news, the confirmed death count in Norway has risen to ninety-two, with more still missing."

Am I the only person who thinks that's just wrong?

A person has to be the next Diana for their death to be considered more worthy of news than an unprecedented massacre of almost one hundred people. So the teenagers in Norway weren't famous singers, but that's hundreds of people who have lost someone special to them - the country hasn't seen destruction like it since WW2. Amy Winehouse... I'm sorry, but she isn't more important than they are! Not one person is! It makes me angry that the attitude towards the celebrity-civilian balance is so hideously out of proportion.

Amy Winehouse > Ninety + innocents in an inoffensive country = WRONG

An important life lesson:

They say you should write about what you know, what interests you, which causes a problem when you don't know anything and nothing interests you.

That is my observation for the day.

Quote of the day: There's something vaguely phallic about this pudding...

...at least try and remember where you're coming from

I did another stupid thing.

I spent the weekend with my sister in Norwich, and, as anyone living within ten miles of the city will know, it's been the mayor's parade. What this basically meant is that the whole of Norwich ground to a halt for the weekend - streets and parks and main roads replaced by people selling food and hippy stalls and the Norfolk Ukulele Society [no joke], with local bands playing nonstop on a big inflatable stage and making small children in buggies hold their hands over their ears and cry. One of the headlining events was a Take That tribute band. Considering my utter indifference to the real deal, I was mildly surprised to find myself the only sober person amongst several hundred Norwich folk in varying stages of intoxication, watching this [surprisingly good] band whilst protecting my camera with a vigilance that would make North Korea proud and putting up with being groped every now and then. I took it as a compliment that whoever it was kept coming back, even if they did run away when I turned to shout at them.

Anyway - my idiot moment came in the finale. It doesn't matter how much of a die-hard Take That antifan you are, everyone knows that Never Forget will always, without fail, be played last. [Note - Never Forget is the only one Howard Donald sings, and it is also the band's most famous song. Am I the only one who sees this as evidence that the he should sing more?] This is the one with the prepubescent boy singing at the start, and then the gradual build up to what has got to be one of the most iconic choruses of all time, in which everyone, without fail, feels compelled to join in with the actions. If you don't know them, shame on you. Anyway, this song is a little misleading. There's one verse, and it sounds like there should be a chorus after that, except there bloody well isn't, as I found out after being the only person to thrust both hands in the air and shout "NEEEEEEEVER" and clap while fake Howard launched into another verse, the bastard. 

Not being completely familiar with the song itself, I should have been able to just laugh it off, but it didn't work out that way. It was awful. I had to pretend to be completely wasted just so I had an excuse to pretend to not notice the hearty, slurred laughter from all around me. Needless to say, I didn't hang around once the song was over - though this did enable me to have my picture taken with the delicious, sweaty, knackered fake Howard. [It's worth noting that this guy had an accent comparable to Ben Stiller in Zoolander and gives out really good hugs, even to completely mental teenage girls banging on about how cute he is. Totally not me, I hasten to lie.]

Doesn't he look just delighted.

Anyway, this humiliated rant does have a point, as I have just thought of one. The chorus to the song I now blush upon hearing goes like this:

Never forget where you're coming from

Never pretend that it's all real

Someday all this will all be someone else's dream

Listen to the song, it will change your life. Possibly by giving you a phobia of large crowds, but whatever. The point is, lately I've been having [more] trouble distinguishing between reality and wishful thinking, and being reminded of this song, along with being told by an incredibly pragmatic friend that "it's okay to dream" has worked to stop me freaking out and going to lengths to squash my unrealistic ambitions.

Have a list:

* Unrealistic ambition number one: Write the next Harry Potter.

* Unrealistic ambition number two: Build my own little house in the country in which to cohabit with my best friend.

* Unrealistic ambition number three: Fix the damn MJ poster to the damn wall. [It doesn't matter how much damn blu-tac I use, I still wake most mornings to find the damn thing on the floor.]

In being calm about it all, I've come to understand something: people whose dreams are realised... People probably told them their ambitions were unrealistic, that they'd never do it, that they'd best give up. How much I'd like to be able to throw those sorts of comments back in their faces! Everyone has anchors in their lives - people or events that drag them down, and stop them from going in the direction they want to because it's "safer" to be sensible. Screw being sensible! Where's the fun in that? I'm going to do my level best to be able, at the end of my life, to look back on my accomplishments and say, with a smug grin, "Up yours', anchors." Starting with the damn poster. Then I'll keep writing and experimenting and practicing and being a grammar Nazi and hoping and praying with every fibre of my being that, one day, I'll be able to support myself with my novel-length rambles. Then the house. Maybe in Ireland, so I can search for leprechauns in my spare time.

On a completely unrelated subject - I'd like to take this opportunity to advertise my complete support for the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender foundation to the one, solitary person who's reading this. Check it out: http://www.lgbt.co.uk/

Quote of the day: Channing Tatum: Ex fashion model turned actor, Channing Tatum comes top of our top 10 list. His rugged, bad ass roles in the likes of Fighting really got us going whilst Dear John showed us his romantic side. Disaster almost struck whilst filming The Eagle of the Ninth, when a crew member accidentally poured boiling water down his wetsuit, burning the skin off his penis. Luckily, he’s made a full recovery. [Number one on Top Ten Sexy Men list, LGBT website. I laughed until my stomach hurt.]

...make an epic fool of yourself

I did something stupid, and now I am embarrassed.

Last Sunday, this kid I know was getting baptised, and the church was crammed. I was sitting at the back next to a woman I'd never met before, and, like the socially not-awkward idiot I am, I tried many times to strike up a conversation. It took about ten minutes of monosyllabic, noncommittal responses to my stupid questions for me to realise she was three things:

    1) Not listening.

    2) Not caring, even if she was.

    3) Breastfeeding.

It really made me think: maybe some people were placed on this Earth purely to give God a good laugh. I wouldn't mind so much if I wasn't completely certain that I am one of those people. As it is, I seriously resent the whole system.

Some people are so damn perfect, it makes you sick. People like Prof. Brian Cox. He's charming, he's insanely clever, he's hot [for a forty-something year old physicist], and he sported some seriously cool hair when he was younger, not counting the mullet. Were it not for the fact that I'm completely in love with him for all the said reasons, I'd probably hate him for being stupidly flawless.

And then there are the people who know they're flawed, but don't care - and in not caring, they make their flaws less so. If I could choose, this is the kind of person I'd be; imperfect, but confident enough to wear my faults on my sleeve, as if to say, "This is me, and I'm not changing for you or anyone else."

And the people like me - acutely aware of our blemishes, made insecure and neurotic because of them, dangerously low self esteem, etc. It's a bummer, and it's massively unfair. 

What makes a person confident or shy? What makes a person gay or straight [or bi, for the Hovis effect*]? Why am I incapable of working with numbers, but relatively competent at manipulating the English language?

Nature or nurture? Is it my fault, or can I blame my genetics? What about my upbringing? How much of an impact on my adult self has my awful primary schooling made? I want to know.

Quote of the day: Any fool knows that bravado is a cover-up for insecurity. [Bobby Darin]

* Best of both