It's been a while, I know. To you, my one long-suffering reader, Miss Harri Notton, I apologise. Feel free to have your "femme sesh", giggling under the covers, as per. That's usually my motivation to write and today is no different. Though if you could tell me how much you love reading my essays, that'd probably be a help.
Today, someone I know planted a comment upon my Facebook wall to tell me that my name had gone out in an email from their insurance company. This spooked me beyond belief. I suddenly had wild visions of half of the student population out looking for me, a runaway insurance trickster, with posters "have you seen this girl?" with pictures of me looking much like Bellatrix Lestrange. Snarling and all. Of course, the name dropping was in relation to the blog that they (foolishly) pay me to write for them and when I had sussed this, I felt slightly better before feeling undoubtedly worse. Somehow, the prospect of being a named and shamed economic fiend was slightly more welcome than the notion that I was actually being promoted as a blogger worth reading. I have probably done more to secure my reputation for the former in the last month, henceforth I am pulling up my proverbial socks and aim to spend more time at my keyboard (as opposed to all those hours I spend shredding documents and laughing derisively).
Life has become increasingly more interesting. Of course, with jolly japes comes great responsibility - or something - so stress levels directly correlate with aforementioned merry inclines. I am most certainly not complaining though. You know how people always say "the first rule of a diet is that it always starts tomorrow"? Well I feel that is quite apt for my degree and I. We parted ways some time after December of Fresher year and now we just bump into each other on the odd occasion. Usually it's a social gathering with middle aged people and when asked what I do with my days, I unabashedly abuse my poor old degree, thrusting it at people to make me sound more arty before chiding it for another few months. It just doesn't know where it stands with me.
In more exciting new, last night I went "Facebook offish" with my new beau, Joe. Chlo and Joe. Mclo. (I know.) Cripes, it was practically written in the stars. Or it was written in the birth certificates at least and that's as good a place as any for something to be written in. I'm cynical about the stars, I've never seen anything written in them; the closest I got was when I once thought I saw Jesus in cloud formation and I'll be the first to admit that I was sceptical of my own vision. I like things to be written by tangible means. Which is why it's now on Facebook. Because nothing is real unless it's on Facebook. As we all know. There's not masses of attention for the Holocaust on Facebook, perhaps that's why some people choose to deny it? ... Sorry, that was most uncharacteristic - I've no idea why I'm being so dry, I'm happy as Larry! Cynicism is a defence mechanism for genuine unadulterated joy. 'Joe', Greek for bringer of many a giggle.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch - I spent the weekend like a posh person. It was very bemusing but quite enjoyable. My aunt has always wanted to have high tea at The Ritz and she's not currently in tip-top shape so we thought we should all go. Why the bleedin' heck not, eh? High tea we went for and high tea we certainly had. I wanted to get my £40 worth (which was funded by a winning Christmas scratch card, thank you gambling addiction) so I had eight stupidlyandaimlesslysmall sandwiches - sans crusts of course -, three scones - my cousin was all ready to cause a ruckus before I pointed out that the green flaky bits were in fact apple -, and what must have been about four cakes. Om nom. It's intriguing to see how aristocracy, or the illusion of, has radically changed in the last hundred years. The Ritz is now full of Green families, laughing loudly and oohing and aahing the cutlery while frantically snapping pictures of everying, skirting boards included, having spent the last month rooting in their wardrobes for a suitable outfit and trying it on six times to be sure, while the intended (affluent) demographic quietly fades somewhere into the din. The working class looks much like the upper. The only difference is the enthusiasm and the slyly employed faux accents. Luckily, I didn't have a problem there. My Dad, on the other hand, wasn't as successful. But who's serving the fancy diners if we're not? One can assume it would be those lower down the pecking order than the working class, which at The Ritz is Eastern-Europeans, apparently. There's trouble at mill, as my mother insightfully commented. Quite, quite.
I am home for Easter, attempting to get several hundred winks in anticipation for the severe lack thereof heading my way. Post-Easter is set to be sheer havoc: three essays, one exam, Black Comedy, some kind of handover for Equality and Diversity Officer (I'm assuming...?), FemSoc's new era, Edinburgh preparation... Golly. I'd best start sleeping now. Cheerio.