Snow Pictures Continued Due To Computer Nervous Breakdown.

I have more snow pictures, which couldn't be put on the first post due to my computer and/or Blogger having a nervous breakdown or possibly succumbing to snow-blindness. So without further ado, here are some more exciting pictures. You even get to see my feet (lucky you) as I dare to venture out of the house.

A closer view of my garden.

The Buddha head my mum inexplicably bought gets a Marge Simpson makeover.

My mum's car.

My snowy footprints. Someone who was less of a failiure than me would have made that look artistic.

My feet looking all cold and snowy. I also kind of look like I'm hovering. Alas, I am not.

My feet and sexy sweat pants in a snowy trench.

Snow Pictures Continued Due To Computer Nervous Breakdown.

So Maybe The News Was Right...

I take back everything I said on my last post re: news channels over-reacting about the snow. Said snow is almost a foot deep now, and has dicked all over my plans for the week. On the one hand, I don't have to go into work for the foreseeable future, since no one wants to buy shoes in Arctic weather. On the other hand however, our Christmas night out has been cancelled, mine and Richard's plans to finally see Harry Potter have been scuppered, and Alice's birthday night out is off due to the birthday girl being stuck at her boyfriend's house in Wigan. I can't help but think that all this may be punishment from BBC News for my mocking of the snow coverage. I always suspected Fiona Bruce had supernatural powers.

Anyway, here are some fabulous photos I took of the snow:





This is the view from my living room window last night.



My dad and one of the neighbours clearing snow.

Nine inches!

Our bench looking like a snow-bed.



Usually it's pitch black by this time of night.



This morning.

So Maybe The News Was Right...

It's Snowing!!...Oh Wait, It's Stopped/Bob Smith Has A Foul Mouth

I just love how every time it snows, the news channels freak out and act like the country is about to implode. News 24 has essentially been like this for the last few days:

Huw Edwards: And our top story tonight is OMFG SNOW!!!! It will kill us all, and disrupt our travel plans!
Now we go to Bob Smith, who's in Yorkshire.

Bob Smith: Yes Huw, IT'S FUCKING SNOWING!!! Look at the snow! Look at the cars-they're stuck. IN THE SNOW. Holy shit, here's a gritter. Now would be a good time to warn you of the possible grit shortage. Yes Huw, you heard me-a grit shortage. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse.

Huw Edwards: Thanks Bob. Now over to Sarah Parker. Sarah's in Scotland, where the worst of the snow is.

Sarah Parker: Scotland. The big one. You think you've seen snow, think again. Scotland's snow dicks all over England's snow. Look how deep it is! This is scary stuff people, the people of Scotland are literally on fire. Why? Because that's what Scotland's death snow does damn it! IT MAKES YOU GO ON FIRE!!! Only the fire doesn't even melt the death snow BECAUSE IT'S MAGIC! Evil magic. Back to you Huw.

Huw Edwards: Bloody hell. Now that's what I call snow. Finally, we go to James Green in Alnwick. James, what's it like up there?

James Green: Arctic conditions up here Huw, Jesus it's cold. Oh and by the way, the snow here is totally death snow too. I'm thirty-two miles away from the border! That's practically Scotland-you tell that to Sarah. I hate it when she comes back, showing off about how she braved the Scottish death snow. THERE'S PEOPLE ON FIRE HERE TOO!! God, I hate her so much. Look at me! I'm braving the ice to walk around interviewing shop keepers. You don't see her doing that do you? Oh and another thing-

Huw Edwards: Err...that's all we have time for James. Thank you for that. Now we go to the weather with Tomasz. Why do you have that look on your face? Is there going to be more snow? ARE WE GOING TO DIE?! Just tell me! *bursts into tears*

By the way, I have this whole back story in my head as to why James hates Sarah so much. It involves her getting all the best on-location reports during the SARS/bird flu/swine flu/Legionnaires/*insert killer pandemic here* stories. Jealousy is a terrible thing.

It's Snowing!!...Oh Wait, It's Stopped/Bob Smith Has A Foul Mouth

I Think I'd Call My Pet Bear Wilberforce

I really want a pet bear. Why? Bears are totally cool that's why. Just think of all the awesome benefits that come with bear ownership:


Transport
Who wants a car when you can travel around on a freaking BEAR?! It would be like horse riding only way cooler because your bear could also climb trees, which horses can't do. Also, if bears can climb trees then they can probably climb other stuff too. Why take the lift up to your office when your bear could just scale the walls and get in through the window? Another benefit: bears are probably a bit like motorbikes in that they can jump ahead of the queue at traffic lights. Even if bears don't officially have this privilege, the other motorists are hardly going to argue with a person riding a bear!


Frightening People
Bears are a naturally scary animal, a feature which can be exploited by a crafty bear owner. Someone taken the last tub of cookie dough ice cream at the supermarket? Introduce them to your bear and you'll find that all of a sudden they decide they'd rather have vanilla. About to receive a parking ticket? Watch the traffic warden turn the other way once he notices your 'A bear is for life, not just for Christmas' sticker. Essentially, if you have a pet bear, you will get your own way all the time due to the ever present threat of mauling.


Warmth
As I sit here shivering because the timer on the boiler is set so that the heating only comes on at about five o'clock, I really wish I had a bear for warmth. A bear is basically a huge, ferocious blanket. I really don't understand why people kill animals for fur. A live, cuddly hat would be so much more fun-not to mention more humane. Having a bear on hand to give me a cuddle every time I got cold would be great. I'd save a fortune on jumpers.


Company
Since my parents and brother are out all day, I'm home alone three days out of seven. It would be nice to have a pet bear to keep me company throughout the day. Not only could I talk to my bear in much the same way people talk to their cats, but I could teach it tricks and stuff. I think a bear would probably be very much like a really big dog, so I could teach it to roll over, play dead etc. This would be a much more productive use of my time than watching old episodes of Have I Got News For You on YouTube and building Lego cars, which is what I've been doing today.


Conversation Starter
Everybody has a dog or a cat, but very few people have pet bears. Therefore mentioning my bear would be a great way to avoid awkward lulls in conversation. There is nothing worse than being stuck with somebody and having nothing to talk about, so having a go-to conversation topic is incredibly important. Even if you don't have a bear, just talking about why you wish you had one can keep a conversation alive for a good ten minutes. More if you include a list of possible names and preferred species.


So those are my reasons for wanting a pet bear. Now I just have to figure out where it would sleep... 

I Think I'd Call My Pet Bear Wilberforce

First Stage Warning: Gross Professional Misconduct Unbecoming of a Laptop

Dear Laptop,

I am writing to you about your recent behaviour, which has quite frankly been unacceptable. I understand that motivation can occasionally be hard to come by, but would it kill you to wake up on time? When I am in a hurry-looking for train times, finding important emails etc, I would appreciate it if you would turn on a little quicker. I am a very busy person Laptop, and I don't have time to sit around for five minutes while Windows 'resumes'.

Your frequent updates are also a cause for concern. Of course I understand your need and desire to do the best possible job by providing me with the latest software updates, however do you really need to do it every day? I'm sure it takes longer than twenty-four hours to programme a whole new version of iTunes. There's being dedicated to learning new skills, and then there's being over-zealous-and you are crossing the line I'm afraid.

On the subject of iTunes, I know that you and iPod don't exactly get along, and the two of you have had your problems over the years, but could you please try to co-operate for my sake? It upsets me when you decide to crash in the middle of syncing, so poor iPod has to restore from backup. Full restore is a very time consuming job, not that you'd know since you always go to sleep halfway through. It is also very hurtful when you completely ignore iPod when I plug him in, resulting in five minutes of angry unplugging and replugging until you finally decide to recognise him. Don't try to tell me it's iPod's fault, you were the same way with his father, and his father before that.

However, the most egregious example of your professional misconduct will be forever remembered as 'The Penis Incident'. I will admit that clicking a link emailed to me by a friend who had been talking for weeks about creating 'Rick Roll 2.0' was a bad idea. However when the gay porn suddenly appeared, I clicked the X button in the hope of getting rid of it, not because I wanted you to keep opening it in new windows that you would not let me close. Having hundreds of pictures of naked men appear on my screen, with no way of getting rid of them other than to shut you down and hope you start behaving yourself, is not something I enjoy. Especially when you have the tenacity to rebuke me for your 'unexpected shutdown' once I've finally stopped panicking that I was going to have to get my Dad to fix it, and he'd see your penis filled screen.

I can only hope that you will see the error of your ways and endeavour to be a little more helpful. If this continues, I'm afraid I may have to replace you with a better model. Preferably one that isn't so heavy that I am unable to use it on my lap, as doing so puts me at risk of femoral injury.

Yours sincerely,

Emily

First Stage Warning: Gross Professional Misconduct Unbecoming of a Laptop

Older and Hopefully Wiser

Advice for my younger self:

• You can't dive, please stop trying. You'll come to realise that belly-flopping hurts.
• The phrase 'going, going, gonorrhea' is not a play on the word 'diarrhoea'. Stop saying it in public.
• You'll still have the body of a nine year-old boy when you're eighteen, so get used to it.
• Every boy who wishes to romantically pursue you will either give, or attempt to give, you a pair of Converse. Don't even bother trying to understand why this keeps happening.
• Don't cut your hair, it will flick out at the bottom, making you look like a brunette Bree Van der Kamp.
• Correcting your geography teacher's spelling will not endear you to her.
• If you climb over the wall separating the school playground from the car wash, you'd better be prepared to hide behind a pile of tyres until the dinnerladies turn the other way.
• Impulse art supply theft will turn your art lesson into an unpleasant high school version of 'The Tell-Tale Heart'. You'll never use all that coloured paper. Just put it back.
• Just because you can climb up a tree, it doesn't necessarily mean that you can get back down again. 

Older and Hopefully Wiser

Running Around Like An ADHD Monkey

Today I made the fatal error of drinking coffee. Since the merest whiff of coffee sends me into state of hyperactivity comparable to a toddler on speed, perhaps opting for a large gingerbread latte was a bad idea. I couldn't help it though. My defences were down due to the fact that I was up and about at the un-godly hour of nine o'clock, and apparently it's Christmas at Costa. Hence the gingerbread lattes and other festive treats. I tried to resist, knowing that caffeine causes me to rapidly alternate between two states-psychosis and urination, but I couldn't. The coffee was calling me.




I know I said I was at Costa, but for some reason I drew Starbucks. I'm a rebel.



So, like a pathetic addict desperate for a fix, I went against my better judgement and bought the coffee. It tasted like curry in a cup, but I drank it anyway. Almost immediately the caffeine began working it's terrible magic, sending me into a strange jittery state which led me to believe that running across the park would be a fantastic idea. It wasn't. I got muddy.

I finally reached home, an energetic mess of gingerbread and mud, and proceeded to spin around rapidly for a few minutes. Once I got bored of spinning, I decided to find other ways to occupy my time and release my pent-up energy.

This whirlwind of activity lasted a few hours, then the more unpleasant effects of my caffeine hit kicked in. I had entered the ouch-my-head-hurts-and-I-really-need-a-wee stage, which combined with the why-does-my-stomach-feel-like-it's-jumping? feeling was not altogether pleasant. I began to mentally curse Costa for it's big Christmassy posters and inviting smell. I started to feel ashamed of my weakness. I needed another wee. The plus side however, was that I was able to concentrate for more than ten seconds again, which is handy when trying to write a blog. Now I think I'll go and have a lie down and beg the coffee gods to stop tap dancing on my brain.

Running Around Like An ADHD Monkey

The Foetal Position Actually Gets Quite Uncomfortable After A While

I am writing this while sat under my desk. Why? The window cleaner is here, that's why. I didn't know the window cleaner worked on a Sunday. I think that maybe he doesn't, and is only here to surprise and frighten me. Or maybe he's here because of Thursday's freak wind, which was reported on the news as being of near hurricane proportions, but actually just knocked a few plant pots over and covered everyones' windows in dust. Thinking about it, the dust is probably the reason he's here. I doubt he got up this morning and thought, "You know what? I'm going to go to Emily's house and freak her out. Turning up on a Sunday will really shit her up!".


Anyway, the window cleaner is here, and the dust has apparently permanently bonded to my window, because he's been scrubbing away for ages. I'm still cowering under my desk because there's nothing more uncomfortable than attempting to go about your business while a whistling Shaggy lookalike stares at you. He may have seen me. I'm trying to move as little as possible, but we may have made brief eye-contact. He probably thinks I'm insane now, he'll probably tell my Dad when he comes round in a few days to get paid. Then I'll be forever remembered as the weirdo who hides from the window cleaner. My Dad will bring it up in years to come when he makes a speech at my wedding. If I have one that is, I mean who wants to marry a woman who spends her time lurking under desks?

Erm, what was I talking about? Oh right, I'm still under the desk. Even though the window cleaner has moved on to another window, I'm still here. It's sort of comfortable actually. There's probably some sort of psychological reason behind it, like it subconsciously reminds you of being in the womb, only it's carpeted.

I should probably get out from under the desk now.

The Foetal Position Actually Gets Quite Uncomfortable After A While

The Time I Saved 30p by Walking For Two Hours

I had a really horrible physics teacher. I mean, like Darth Vader evil-my friend Dave even hummed 'The Imperial Death March' whenever she walked past. Dave and I used to struggle with physics due to our insane fear of Janet and her Sith Lord powers, and consequently had to go into college on Study Day. We would attend a special extra class for about half an hour, then spend the rest of the day playing bullshit in the cafeteria. Dave got brave (oooh rhyme!) and decided to stop coming in on his study day, leaving me alone all day. Now I don't know if you've ever tried to find something to do for five hours when you're on your own in semi-rural Lancashire, but you run out of ideas quickly. I did all my homework, wandered around the park, and eventually decided to head home. One problem however: the train fare was £5.80, and I had £5.40. I scoured the college for dropped money, checking the change thingy (Bucket? Slot? Well?) in all the vending machines. I must have looked like a tramp. Alas, no money. It was then that I had what I thought was an excellent idea: I would walk to Croston train station, thus bypassing the Leyland-Preston-Croston leg of the journey and save myself 30p! I knew the way, since the bus went through Croston every day, and it only took ten minutes to get from Croston to college.


So I set off on my epic adventure. The first sign that this wasn't going to be a relaxing stroll through the countryside was when I realised that I would be spending the next hour or so dicing with death. The thing about the countryside is that there are lots of fields, and the farmers don't really like fancy city folk (stereotyping? Me?) building roads on them. Therefore the roads are as narrow as possible, a feat which is achieved by doing away with pavements. As I tramped along the side of the road, occasionally leaping into the bushes to avoid oncoming cars, I began to wonder whether this was a good idea. The drivers looked rather angry as they sped past me, I think a few even laughed as I jumped into the mud as I heard them approach.


I also realised that even though I had spent approximately eight months at college, catching a bus that went the same route every day, my sense of direction would still fail me. Around halfway through my journey, I was faced with a fork in the road. I spent around five minutes trying to decide which road the bus had gone down every night, before realising that I had a train to catch and the clock was ticking. I thought "Hmm, the left fork looks vaguely familiar, I'll go down here". The left fork continued looking vaguely familiar for about fifteen minutes, before I reached a church that didn't look familiar at all. It appeared that I was in a place called Lower Eccleston. I was upset. I was also confused, since I was pretty sure Lower Eccleston was a village about ten miles north of where I was currently standing. I turned around and ran back the way I had come.

The next stage in the journey was far more pleasant. I was going the right way, which is always good, and there was a pavement, so I was unlikely to die. Eventually I reached Croston, and words cannot describe how happy I was to have made it, alive and only slightly sweaty (it was the middle of summer). Just one more obstacle to overcome however: finding the station. I was under the impression that Croston basically consisted of just one road. After wandering up and down this road a few times, I admitted defeat and asked the man who had been watching me from his garden, presumably fearing that I was some sort of criminal casing the joint. He pointed me in the direction of the station, and I set off again. I had just five minutes to run for the train. It was like an action sequence from a film, only it was a sweaty seventeen year-old running through a quiet village instead of Bruce Willis running around LA. Anyway after some crazy-ass, undignified running, I finally made it to the station. The man at the ticket stand looked at me like I was a freak as I collapsed on to the desk red-faced and panting. I didn't care though, I was going home! Nevermind that by the time I actually got home, it was 5:00pm, the time I would have got home had I taken the bus. I had achieved something incredible that day. Also, I would have something to blog about a year and a half later.

The Time I Saved 30p by Walking For Two Hours

If A Bird Touched A Sheep's Eye, I'd Faint. Naked.

Things that I am scared of:

• Feathers.
• People touching their eyes.
• Brian Blessed.
• That moment just before the plane lands, when you're really close to the ground but it feels like you're going too fast and about to crash into the runway and die in the most pathetic plane crash ever.
• Losing consciousness while naked.
• Sheep.
• Walking under streetlights when there's birds sat on them.
• The game of chicken that you have when walking towards those hardened city pigeons. Having become unafraid of humans, they don't fly away until you're right next to them, and then they usually fly right at you.
• Basically birds in general.
• Pregnancy and childbirth. 

If A Bird Touched A Sheep's Eye, I'd Faint. Naked.

First Drink

Today I thought I'd write about that major milestone, the First Drink. It can be a terrible experience-what eighteen year old is prepared for the huge responsibility of buying a round of drinks? It starts out innocently enough, you and a merry band of well-wishers enter the pub, find a seat, and get chatting. A few minutes in, somebody will announce "I think it's time for the birthday boy/girl to get his/her first round in!". You feel confident. You feel, dare I say it, grown up. Then all of a sudden, the enormity of the situation hits you. People start shouting out complex orders. Some even want crisps. You don't ask them to repeat what they said however, because you are an adult now. Adults are supposed to be able to handle this sort of thing. So you approach the bar. You begin to sweat. As you reach the bar, and a barmaid smiles down at you, you realise you are doomed. You can't remember what you were supposed to order. Surely nobody's liver can handle a deadly cocktail of rum, vodka, and gin? Who goes to a pub to drink Coke, orange juice, and tonic water? Who EVER drinks Coke, orange juice, and tonic water in the same glass for that matter? Since when was 'a pint' a standard measurement of wine? Do they even make vinegar and onion crisps?


It is usually at this point that you begin to panic. You might even have some sort of breakdown. Who wants their eighteenth birthday to be remembered as the time they broke down in tears and ran screaming down the street? Eventually, you manage to garble out something that at least vaguely resembles the list you were sent to the bar with. Then comes the next challenge: getting the drinks back to the table. You have ordered the drinks, and The Rules of the Pub declare that you, and you alone, will carry them. You feel intimidated by more experienced pub-goers, carrying five pints around at once. Slowly and carefully, you pick up a glass in each hand. Now you are faced with a dilemma. Do you look forward, in the direction of travel, or behind you? Looking forward has it's obvious merits, but what if someone steals your drinks while you're looking forward? You'd better check behind you every few metres just in case. Looking around the room, attempting to identify drink-pinchers, you begin the first trip back to your table. Your friends have by now buggered off to play pool, leaving you to sit with the drinks. You are too afraid to leave them, your Mum's warned you about spikers. You've spent years wishing you were an adult, and now you take it all back. This is awful. You cannot even cope with going to the pub, how are you going to handle bills, and cleaning, and pension plans? Overloaded with information, your brain short-circuits. Everything fades to black.

First Drink

My Inaugural Post!

So I finally decided to start a blog. Technically I already have two, but I actually intend to stick with this one. The first blog I ever had was on songmeanings.com. After a while I realised two important things: a) no one was actually reading it, and b) I had very little to write about. Also, I forgot the password. My second attempt was on Livejournal, but I sacked off writing and just started joining random communities instead. Which I then lurked on instead of actually contributing to. However I have turned over a new leaf! I am officially de-lurking, and unleashing my thoughts upon the internet.


I intended to say something profound on my first entry, but as ever, I have just gone off at a tangent. So I'm very sorry (is anybody actually reading this?). I'm now beginning to feel a little self-conscious, as though the Gods of the internet are staring down at me, willing me to stop before I embarrass them, and myself, further. So I will stop. Before I sit here all day, typing every thought that comes into my head.

My Inaugural Post!