Last Monday, I woke up feeling a bit ooky. My back and my stomach were hurting, and I had a bit of a headache. I tootled off to work, with Helen driving us in her car -

(I’ve just had to stop typing this story because my phone has beeped “low battery”. It needs charging every five minutes these days! Excuse me a moment.)

Righto, I’m back. My charger isn’t where I thought it was, so I’ve just switched my phone off for a bit instead. That’ll fool it into thinking it’s got a half-full battery, anyway.

So, last Monday, I was at work feeling generally achey and I couldn’t get warm despite the best efforts of my (brilliant) York St John hoodie. I sat through one of our Staff Seminars with my eyes shut, because I couldn’t take the bright lights in the council chamber. Anyway, by half past four I was ready for my bed, but Helen couldn’t finish work until 6 so I couldn’t get home, which is 10 miles away and not reachable by public transport.

Is reachable even a word? I’m just making stuff up now. It’s because of that Noam Chomsky presentation I’ve been working on!

Here be a lesson, dear reader: Don’t carshare! If Hel had driven in, and I had Muriel with me as well, we would’ve been fine! Helen could’ve stayed working, and I could’ve pootled off home in mon little green bean. As it was, Leigh very kindly dropped me home with strict instructions not to go to university the next day if I didn’t feel better. I waved her off, went to see Mutti and Keith to inform them of my near-death situation, then shuffled off into bed.

I slept from 6 on Monday evening, until about 6.30 on Tuesday morning. I woke up intermittently - Mutti made me drinks and food, but I couldn’t stomach anything. I’m really not a moany person when it comes to being ill. I’m one of those annoying, chipper little folk with a 100% attendance record for work, school and uni (or at least, I was!). It felt so bizarre to be knocked completely flat by something, when I’d been clopping around at work just hours earlier. I couldn’t even face doing any knitting.

I am still knitting, by the way. Only I’m not doing all that much, and the bits I am doing are Christmas surprises so can’t really go up on here. I’ll post photos on the 26th =)

Luckily, on Tuesday, my back felt much better, and my teeth had stopped aching, but my stomach, eyes and head still weren’t happy bunnies. I didn’t go in to uni - the lectures would have been fine, but the long day, sitting around the campus and lurking in the freezing train station, might’ve finished me off. I called in sick to work and set up camp on the sofa for the day, switching between uni textbooks and thrillingly bad daytime TV. I cuddled up with my blanket, but my stomach still growled on. To the left is one of my soon-to-be famous (I’m sure) “artist’s impressions” =)

I went back to work on Wednesday. It was one of those really morale-boosting days, where loads of people say heart-lifting things like “you’re really pale” or “what’s wrong with you?” or “you look really, really tired!”. I went horse-riding on Wednesday night, and worked on Thursday. I treated myself to a day’s holiday on Friday, went to the ball on the evening, and worked on my presentation for uni yesterday. All the time, my tummy hasn’t been quite right. Something else hasn’t been quite right, either, but I’m too polite to say it here! Long-suffering Laura is the lucky recipient of that kind of in-depth information.

So this morning, when I woke up, I pretty much expected to feel crappy. But no! One of my first thoughts of the day was “Crikey, I’m hungry!”. My tummy had clearly had enough of its 6-day-long protest against food and had decided to be my friend again. To the left is an artist’s impression. And no, I don’t know why my tummy speaks Spanish, either.

And so for breakfast, I made one of my super-duper cheesey omelettes. I’ve had tea and cereal and Scotch pancakes and Greek yoghurt - in short, I’ve been trying to make up for my week of not eating very much at all.

But something was missing.

Something… sweet.

Something like… BISCUITS!

Helen bought Jamie Oliver’s new cookbook for me for my birthday last month. So far, all I’ve covered is the “eggs” chapter. I’ve got it down to a pretty fine art (hence the cheesey omelette) but feel I should really be working on my cookery skills to ensure I don’t starve when I eventually move away from home and into my Happy Little Flat.

Merrily, Jamie’s Ministry of Food has a nice little oaty biscuit recipe towards the back. Due to Helen’s cake-making fixation, we had all of the necessary ingredients and so, taking a break from my day of university presentation prep (I’d been considering a trip to Newcastle at first, so really, making the biscuits has demonstrated a real level of commitment to my studies) I rolled up my sleeves, got out the scales and a sieve and a big ol’ mixing bowl, and got down to it. Jamie-boy did warn me that my biscuits would spread out in the oven, but I didn’t appreciate they’d grow quite so much. And that’s how I ended up with one giant, tray-shaped biscuit…

Jamie’s plan for the Ministry of Food book was for hapless idiots (i.e: me) to learn a recipe from the book, and then teach it to two of their friends. These two friends should pass the recipe on to another two friends each, who’ll pass it on to another two friends each.. you get the idea. It’s like a pyramid scheme, but with pok choi.

Despite Jamie’s noble effort to spread cooking competence across the nation, I think I might get into a bit of hot water if I broadcast his recipes here. I gave Laura a quick biscuit rundown when we met for a sedate cup of tea earlier - she’s been poorly, too - but I get the impression she was just humouring me. That means I’ll have to tell it to any boys I can think of, because tomorrow is the first of December and, to 98% of the women I know, that means one thing:

Christmas little-black-dress diets!

Groan. My tummy’s cheeks are starting to look a bit green again….

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I took a day off work yesterday to have a morning of university graft, and an afternoon of prepping for my night out with the girls from the stables. I really enjoyed the party - it was great to go over-the-top with dressing up. I wore a mini top hat at a jaunty angle, my black Monsoon dress, and a giant satin bow I crafted, swearing all the way, on my trusty sewing machine.

Oh, and my killer shoes. Luckily though, there was enough bubbly on the go to take the edge off, and I even indulged in a spot of ballroom dancing with Jenn. I’m sure we were fantastic…

Jenn and Sarah departed around 11 pm, but Lisa and I decided we were in it for the long-haul. Until thirty minutes later, when we realised the safest place for us to be was at home. And so, Lisa’s partner Bumph (that’s not his real name, of course) very kindly collected us at midnight and dropped me at home. I ended my evening in spectacular fashion, watching Gavin and Stacey on the iPlayer wearing my pyjamas and my top hat, then rolling in to bed for a nice snooze.

Eyeliner, beSottied style

My successful application of eyeliner for last night’s ball has made me grossly overconfident in my make-up skills. On the off-chance that this accomplishment was not a fluke, I’ve provided a handy step-by-step guide for anyone wishing to emulate my Clockwork Orange-ish look.

1. Prepare your workspace
   Make sure you have a nice big mirror and good lighting. This is no time for ambient lighting, scented candles or any of that silliness. For me, eyeliner application is tantamount to a critical medical procedure, and only a lamp capable of summoning Batman is good enough.
   Put some music on. Anything by Girls Aloud is my make-up music of choice - one day, I WILL channel their cosmetic skills through my TedPod.
2. Prepare your canvas
   Apply your usual foundation, powder, blusher, highlighter, wood varnish etc…
3. Prepare your tools
   Trust me: you don’t want to be staggering around your bedroom, groping for a cotton bud with weeping eyes. Get all your bits and bobs together before you begin:
   • Black eye pencil - sharpened!
   • (Optional) grey eye pencil
   • A considerable supply of cotton buds
   • Your foundation and brush/sponge for emergency corrections

4. The left eye
   With the steadiest of hands, take your dangerously sharp black pencil and bring it up nice n’ close to your open eye.
   
   Sneeze.
   
   Draw a line along your upper lid from the inner corner of your eye, about quarter of the way along your lid. It helps to stick your tongue out.
   
   Pause as you think you’re going to sneeze again. False alarm. Raise the pencil to your eye once more.
   
   Close your eye, pull your eyelid taut with your non-pencil-wielding hand, and carry the black line across to the outer corner of your eye.
5. The right eye
   Attempt to repeat the previous steps for your right eye. Jab yourself in your eye with the pencil or, to mix it up a bit, with your finger. Watch with horror as a smudgy black tear starts to track down over your flawless foundation. Stem the flow with a cotton bud.

   Crisis averted. Be calm. Regroup!
   Cover eyeliner tracks on cheeks with emergency foundation. Try again with the pencil. Succeed.

6. The left eye again
   Try to make the line on your left eye resemble the line on your right, in thickness and shape. Use fearful, feathery strokes. Make slight corrections using numerous cotton buds.
7. Maybe the right eye a bit more… no! No, leave it!
   Put the pencil down.
8. The bottom line
   Use a grey pencil along your bottom lashline. I don’t have any tips for the bit - by this point you’ll probably think you’re pretty fantastic with an eye pencil, and decide to go freestyle anyway.
9. Take a moment to dance around your room. Sneeze
10. Mascara
    Remain calm! The end’s in sight but don’t bloody ruin it with haphazard application of mascara. Open your eyes crazily wide, and open your mouth (it has to be done).

    The second eye will, inevitably, look much better than the first. This is a law of science, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

11. You’re done
    And hopefully, you don’t look like either a hooker, or a pirate.
12. Pose for a photo
    In your nightie. Try to get your laundry basket and en-suite toilet in the background for that touch of class…

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Well.

Well indeed. After days of BBC weather forecasters predicting snow of epic proportions… it has finally happened. The snow began to fall at around 6 am this morning, and now, we have about half a centimetre of snow, not quite covering the lawn =)

All that fuss about nothing. No doubt the news will make a meal of it anyway, though - I’ll bet my lunch that something somewhere has happened to some kid, and this light dusting of snow will have to shoulder the blame.

It’s certainly cold, though. When I woke up this morning I considered putting the heating on, but since I don’t know how to work the upstairs heating since I’m the only one home, and since I am so eco-conscious, I came up with a much funkier solution: I scampered into Mutti and Keith’s room, hauled their giant quilt off their giant bed, traipsed back into my room and artfully arranged their quilt on top of mine. True, I could hardly breathe under the weight of my bedding, but I was, without doubt, the snuggliest bug in existence! In fact I quite want to go and clamber back into bed now…

I drove down to York yesterday to spend some time in the University library. I’m sure you don’t want me to tell you about that in detail! I’m going to trot back downstairs now, mostly because I know how to work the downstairs heating. Helen is at Mike’s, and Mutti and Keith are having a weekend away. Ideally, I’d be spending this wonderful alone time getting intimate with a DVD boxset and my knitting (perfect weather for it) but unfortunately, I’ve got me an education to get. Back to the textbooks I go (sigh).

Oh and, you may be wondering why I was awake at 6 am on a Sunday morning. That, my friend, is a very good question. It’s also exactly why I need to get myself that wild and ker-azy life in Newcastle =)

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Dearest darling

I know that confessing my love for you so publicly is risky. Some people, especially my boyfriend, will find it shocking. However, my feelings for you are so strong I can’t help but declare them for all to see.

You’ve always been there for me, through good times and bad. So much so that I can hardly bear to pull myself away from you.

When curled in your warming, firm embrace I learn of Chomsky and Marx, of cables and purls. I know that, if I sneakily discard my textbooks in favour of a night with my knitting needles or a copy of Heat, it’ll be kept just between us.

Occasionally, I’ll stray and sleep with another, often in cheap hotels. Still, you stand stoically by me, knowing that eventually I will return to you, ever more grateful for your comfort, for your reassuring weight.

I trust you implicitly, knowing that you’ll never breathe a word about my dancing to terrible songs, around my bedroom… in my pants. You like me most when I’m not wearing make-up, and don’t mind that, when I sleep soundly, just a little bit of drool comes out.

I promise to dress you impeccably, to never get eyeliner all over you, and thoroughly vacuum beneath you.

Because, darling, you are my bed, and I love you.

Emily

Peekaboo!

I am completely out of vim, and running precariously low on vigour.

I can’t be bothered to try to fix the CSS for my blog. I think I’ll save that fun little activity for this big ol’ snowstorm they’re forecasting this weekend (that big ol’ snowstorm that probably won’t materialise).

I am starting to freak out, ever so slightly, about this crazed university-and-work situation I have gone and gotten myself into.

I was in Newcastle today for a regional meeting of the ASCC. I’m completely in love with Newcastle, and spending all day sitting in a meeting room with brilliant views of the Tyne Bridge and the Castle Keep hasn’t lessened my intense desire and longing to live there.

Below is an artist’s impression of the Tyne Bridge (please remember that I am the “artist” in question, and that I cannot draw).

Hey, some people want fame and fortune in their life. All I’d like is to move into a happy little flat 35 miles up the road from where I am now, preferably with a reasonable yarn stash and a faithful MacBook =)

Oh, and world peace, of course.

Once the meeting ended I was left with a kajillion hours to kill before the next train home. Leigh and I thought we’d go for a quick look at Fenwick’s Christmas windows with Wendy, a colleague from another local authority, before trotting off to the train station.

Of course, I still think it’s far, far too early for any sort of Christmas extravaganza, but I almost went back on my beliefs when I learned that the Hairy Bikers, a BBC cookery duo from my region, were switching on the Newcastle Christmas lights. I would have loitered until the main event at half past six had I not arranged to meet Laura in Hartlepool for dinner.

And so I met my wifey and we gorged on potato skins with barbeque sauce. I ordered the Hartlepool cod and chips for my main (schoolgirl error there, far too many potatoes involved in my meal!) and by the jingo, it was the biggest fish ever to be served on a plate. It may in fact have been Moby Dick - mammal in beer batter.

Yum.

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