Ballet.

I'm taking up ballet again. Don't laugh. I know I have all the grace and co-ordination of a marauding rhino, but it's good to do something that scares you every once in a while.

Besides, I like the shoes.

Especially with legwarmers and a tutu.

An end in sight.

Another late night essay marathon brought to you by Jaffa Cakes and cordial.

The last of way too many.

Hurrah for the future - leaving work at the office and having a life outside of working hours...or is that just another rumour like the streets of America being paved with gold?

Visions of Venice.

What do you think? Opinions welcome.

Sorry it's not a proper post - don't have time 'til Monday.

Frazzled.

Just one more assignment to go.

When it's done, I'll write and I'll run,

but for now, enjoy the photo.

Self Portraits

When it comes to judging beauty in others I like to think of myself as something of a connoisseur. There's nothing I like better than to people-watch. To sit, alone, drink in hand in some deserted corner of a cafe watching people meeting with friends, lovers, stopping for a drink before going on with their business. You might say I'm nosy. I like to look at clothes, shoes, hair, eye colour, learning from the bad and storing away the good for future inspiration. You might say I'm judgemental too. I also study demeanor, how a person holds themself, facial expression, do they return a passing smile in the street? I like to try to construct lives and personalities for these strangers around the basis of their looks and comportment. I have no difficulty in deciding which looks I like, which hairstyle pleases me most, who is attractive and who is not - until I am confronted with myself. You might, therefore, even say I'm conceited. We are all, however, permitted a certain degree of navel-gazing, a certain amount of time to spend 'staring, big -Narcissus, into some spring, to set the darkness echoing', and that is precisely what I spent an hour doing yesterday. The portraits are the result.

Why is it that the one person you would think you'd know best is often the one you simply can't get an objective handle on? Why does it even matter?

I have always found it odd that every time I catch sight of myself in a mirror or a photograph a different girl seems to stare back. I like to think that there is a different face for each of the little personalities which together constitute the whole (Suzy Home-maker, Power-dressing-business-bitch, Popular Party Girl, Cynical Social Recluse, the Kid, the Free Spirit) and that the camera is capable of catching each one as it surfaces momentarily.

I keep looking at these photos and trying to figure this girl out, see her through eyes which aren't my own so I can make my mind up about her as I would any other person. It's no good though.

Green Eyes. Greedy for things they can't have.

How to catch a fleeting moment without freezing its flight?

Alexandra and Pasha

Easter Sunday with the family at Chatsworth House. Blue skies, good company and a picnic. I'll miss these days when they're gone.

'Mega'bus?

Began my journey home yesterday at 11:30 - arrived at 22:30!! No, I don't live in Jamaica, that's how long it takes to get from Watchfield to Sale if you opt not to use the train. I love Oxford Tube buses, big, clean double deckers with few passengers and lots of leg room. My inner child ran straight upstairs to steal the front seat - sensible side said 'you're toast if you crash', but my inner adventurer reasoned that the vantage point makes it worth the gamble. Windshield was sporting a massive crack from one side to the other but adventurer insisted we 'risk it for a biscuit'. London's gorgeous on a sunny day. Everyone out riding their horses, jogging or chilling in Hyde Park - a small taste of what life would be like if global warming keeps its promises.


Bought a book and an ice-cream sundae which was presented to me in a fire bucket as I waited for my bus transfer at Victoria. Was waiting for the usual sleek, blue double decker Megabus when this turned up. (see pic) 'Pity the poor bastards getting that for their journey' I thought to myself. Hmmm. Four and half hours of being crammed into a little, un-reclinable seat with no leg-room in front of the smelliest, loudest girl on Earth and I was indeed pitying the poor bastards - namely myself. Seemed that the only thing working was the air-con., which had apparently decided to make up for all other short comings by being super-efficient. 20 degrees outside, and we were all wearing coats and scarves.

Was so good to get home to the family and a dinner plate sized slab of aged red meat. Today's Easter Friday, meaning we've decided to exchange choccies 2 days early. Chouchoute, champagne eggs and Reese's peanut butter cups...who needs a man when you've got chocolate?

My sister is awesome

I don't know what I'd do without her.

Alektorophobia...Chicken Phobia??

Chicken for dinner again tonight. Why is it the only affordable meat/poultry not to have been put through a grinder and cut with sawdust? Oh how I burn for a good steak, or lamb chops, pork fillet perhaps...anything but bloody chicken!! Why does it have to be so slimy and whiff faintly of rotten eggs when raw? It's really off-putting trying to eat the damn thing when you're still haunted by the image of bits of it clinging stubbornly to the cutting board. Then bits of it get stuck in the brillo pad and you wind up trying to pick them off with your fingers until there's practically no scourer left...argh! What is this, the chicken's revenge?

Here's a great business venture for anyone interested; a take-away restaurant. I'm not talking McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC...if I wanted to eat giblets I'd buy a can of dog food. I'm talking take-away steak, cooked to your liking with a medley of vegetables and sauteed potatoes; salmon with asparagus and new potatoes; duck a l'orange on a bed of parnsip mash... On nights like tonight when the last thing I can be bothered to do is wrestle a dead chicken in the kitchen I'd pay good money to have someone cook decent, nutritious food for me. I suppose if I were less of a shrew I might have a boyfriend to do that kind of thing like just all the regular frilly girls do, but until I find my Petruccio it's a life of picking chicken off the brillo pad for me it seems. Guess it beats picking some bloke's dirty undercrackers off the bedroom floor everyday.

On the distinctly up-side I shall be going home for Easter on Thursday, where the man in my life - aka Dad - will be cooking up a storm. I'm told we'll be eating out a bit too, and of course there's always that little matter of Easter eggs...Hurrah!! Do I detect Chouchoute chocolates on the horizon? I can picture it now: Hi Mum, Hi Dad. Where's the chocolate?

Cookies or cake?

Skippy popped round unannounced today with the ex he went to Paris with. To add insult to injury the curtain pole fell down and hit me on the head as I tried to open the door, and the front door blew the kitchen door shut, locking us out because the handle is broken. Meanwhile a batch of cinamon and maple oatmeal cookies was threatening to catch fire in the oven. To top it off, I was looking fabulous in my jogging bottoms and t-shirt, with no make up and greasy hair. Also reeked of stinky cream of yesterday's post fame. Awesome.

I apologised to the ex for my appearance and mentioned that had I known she was coming I'd have made more of an effort, to which Skippy retorts "oh but don't bother for me then...". He was kidding, but I couldn't resist pointing out that he forfeit that particular priviledge when he decided he 'just needed to be single and selfish at the moment'. God love him but he's getting on my last tattered nerve at the moment.

Cookies are good, though undergoing some kind of identity crisis as to whether they are indeed cookies or cake. I've tried to come up with some witty hi-bred name for them but to no avail...seriously, give it a go, all you get is 'cookies' or 'cake'.

Really must go for a run tomorrow. Have been pretty slack of late.