Sad Girl - Amy Allison
Apparently, Amy Allison is New York's best kept secret. I'm not going to disagree, I'm yet to seek out any more of her work. But the almost sickly sweet voice teamed with the matter of fact lyrics and the county tune are nice. Very nice.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Worst Day Of The Year
Apparently, today is the worst day of the year. A combination of winter weather, left over Christmas bills, failed New Year's resolutions and general downtime after the festive fun times leaves everyone feeling blue.
To be honest, I felt this the day after Boxing Day when I realised there really were no more presents and I'd spent far too much money on people I won't be seeing for another twelve months.
But, I can't help but feel slightly....down. There is no spring in my step today, no song in my heart nor joy in my laughter. In fact, there is no laughter at all today. Because everyone else around me seems to be feeling it too. We're all sat at our desks tapping away half heartedly at our "work" whilst the phones don't ring and the radio provides mellow background noise.
Even the supposed snow London will be receiving soon isn't raising a small feeling of child like glee in me. And I bloomlin' love snow, me.
Being in a middle ground mood where I'm neither annoyed or happy is not somewhere I usually am. I tend to be an all the way up or all the way down kind of person. Which isn't something I particularly like about myself, but what cannae do, eh? So, to be perfectly content with feeling perfect apathy is...odd. It's not something I can even explain properly. Because I can't be bothered to find the right words. D'ya know what I mean?
Pffff.
To be honest, I felt this the day after Boxing Day when I realised there really were no more presents and I'd spent far too much money on people I won't be seeing for another twelve months.
But, I can't help but feel slightly....down. There is no spring in my step today, no song in my heart nor joy in my laughter. In fact, there is no laughter at all today. Because everyone else around me seems to be feeling it too. We're all sat at our desks tapping away half heartedly at our "work" whilst the phones don't ring and the radio provides mellow background noise.
Even the supposed snow London will be receiving soon isn't raising a small feeling of child like glee in me. And I bloomlin' love snow, me.
Being in a middle ground mood where I'm neither annoyed or happy is not somewhere I usually am. I tend to be an all the way up or all the way down kind of person. Which isn't something I particularly like about myself, but what cannae do, eh? So, to be perfectly content with feeling perfect apathy is...odd. It's not something I can even explain properly. Because I can't be bothered to find the right words. D'ya know what I mean?
Pffff.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Getting Nowhere Fast
I braved the gym last night. This isn't something I do very often.
On a whim one sunny winter day last year I joined my local gym. I paid right up for twelve whole months. I somehow managed to not cry when I saw how much they charged per month. For the first three weeks I think I went six or seven times. Not bad, eh? For someone who had shunned excercise since PE at schooll. I wouldn't say I enjoyed the experience of excercising in public those first few times, but I dealt with it the best way I knew how. Didn't think about it. Just went through the motions of actually getting myself to a machine and then using it and then getting off it and then finding another one and then using that and so on and so on until I'd been there a hour and it was time to go home.
I felt quite a lot of pain those first few weeks. Thigh ache was probably the worst. Sitting down became no easy task.
So anyway, three weeks of regular excercise and I decided to give myself a break. That break only ended last night. Nearly a whole year of not going to the gym, despite paying for the privlidge every month. Money to burn, you think? Alas, no. At the time of signing away my money for a whole year I told myself repeatedly the gym was a luxery and I should think of it as such and make sure I got my monies worth. But did I fuck. I sat at home eating crisps and watching Big Brother instead.
Then last night I went, and I kind of enjoyed it. Feeling the burn...it was good.
And now the question is, do I sign up for another twelve months? I get a 10% discount this time! But then there's crisps and Big Brother, man......
Poxy pissing New Year. Making me feel almost duty bound to better myself in some way *this* year. Because, of course, this will be The Year I sort myself out. It would have been last year, but, you know, stuff got in the way.
On a whim one sunny winter day last year I joined my local gym. I paid right up for twelve whole months. I somehow managed to not cry when I saw how much they charged per month. For the first three weeks I think I went six or seven times. Not bad, eh? For someone who had shunned excercise since PE at schooll. I wouldn't say I enjoyed the experience of excercising in public those first few times, but I dealt with it the best way I knew how. Didn't think about it. Just went through the motions of actually getting myself to a machine and then using it and then getting off it and then finding another one and then using that and so on and so on until I'd been there a hour and it was time to go home.
I felt quite a lot of pain those first few weeks. Thigh ache was probably the worst. Sitting down became no easy task.
So anyway, three weeks of regular excercise and I decided to give myself a break. That break only ended last night. Nearly a whole year of not going to the gym, despite paying for the privlidge every month. Money to burn, you think? Alas, no. At the time of signing away my money for a whole year I told myself repeatedly the gym was a luxery and I should think of it as such and make sure I got my monies worth. But did I fuck. I sat at home eating crisps and watching Big Brother instead.
Then last night I went, and I kind of enjoyed it. Feeling the burn...it was good.
And now the question is, do I sign up for another twelve months? I get a 10% discount this time! But then there's crisps and Big Brother, man......
Poxy pissing New Year. Making me feel almost duty bound to better myself in some way *this* year. Because, of course, this will be The Year I sort myself out. It would have been last year, but, you know, stuff got in the way.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Finding ways of annoying my colleagues is a favourite past time of mine and one of the most effective seems to be playing a song on repeat for as long as I can stand it. I can stand it for an impressive amount of time. They can't.
Today, the song of choice was this:
The Magic Position - Patrick Wolf
Listen. Enjoy. Dance if you feel like. G'wan. Do a dance. You know you want to.
Buy The Magic Position from Amazon here.
Where The Cool Kids Go
KoKo, Camden.
Friday night, it's cold and the queue is round the block. An hour previous a friend had text me to let me know she and one other mate were safely nestled amongst the scenster kids and my group must rush our pints and run to join them.
So we finish our pints and leave the busy but nicely buzzing World's End and make our way down the road. We found them less than a third of the way up the queue, hunched up from the cold and gazing wistfully at the gates they were no where near reaching. At least when you reach the gates you feel you're getting somewhere.
Despite blatantly queue jumping myself, I became something of a Queue Nazi within ten minutes of arriving. Any groups of mates less than five groups infront of me were not allowed to let their friends go before my group. One guy tried to bribe me with a can of Becks. Had it of been a Carling, he might of had a deal. But Carling? Nah mate. Get to the back. You ain't welcome here. His giggling girlfriend did nothing to help him as he slowly plodded down the road. I didn't feel bad.
I love Camden. I really do. I don't tend to wander too far away from The Dublin Castle, World's End or Lock Tavern, but those are all I really need, no? Probably not. But I live in the deepest SE London and am ignorant to most places beyond Waterloo. Give me a break.
One thing Camden does do to me, though, is bring home the fact that I am no longer a teenager. Yes, I may have only just graduated from teens to twenty something, but in an area thriving with The Cool Kids sometimes I do have to take a moment to remind myself that, you know, I'm alright. I've got my mandatory battered Converse - in three different colours, no less, I can wear a tie without fear and my grey checked bomber jacket has a Sparklehorse badge pinned proudly to the front pocket.
The fact that I have to remind myself I'm alright is the actual problem. Not the feeling of total averagness these kids infect me with. Why am I marking myself up against a girl of seventeen who is clearly dressed head to toe in Topshop, with hair that doesn't seem to have been brushed since 1999 and make up Amy Winehouse would shy away from? Who is the real Cool Kid here? And, more to the point, who gives a fuck? No one is judging me because I'm wearing a tatty hoodie with more holes than buttons and a hairstyle my mum would have been proud of in 1983 - which is completely unintentional, I must stress - so why am I looking to judge them?
Probably because, for the first time in my young life, I'm starting to experience Growing Old. And it's only going to get worse the more birthdays I go through.
Anyway, back to the KoKo queue. We gave up. We're not that desperate to bouce around in a sweaty club so packed you can't even lift your overpriced can of Fosters to your mouth without getting most of it in your hair.
We got in a cab and boogied on down at the far more comfortable Borderline. Where everyone is welcome. And most are over 20. Hurrah!
Friday night, it's cold and the queue is round the block. An hour previous a friend had text me to let me know she and one other mate were safely nestled amongst the scenster kids and my group must rush our pints and run to join them.
So we finish our pints and leave the busy but nicely buzzing World's End and make our way down the road. We found them less than a third of the way up the queue, hunched up from the cold and gazing wistfully at the gates they were no where near reaching. At least when you reach the gates you feel you're getting somewhere.
Despite blatantly queue jumping myself, I became something of a Queue Nazi within ten minutes of arriving. Any groups of mates less than five groups infront of me were not allowed to let their friends go before my group. One guy tried to bribe me with a can of Becks. Had it of been a Carling, he might of had a deal. But Carling? Nah mate. Get to the back. You ain't welcome here. His giggling girlfriend did nothing to help him as he slowly plodded down the road. I didn't feel bad.
I love Camden. I really do. I don't tend to wander too far away from The Dublin Castle, World's End or Lock Tavern, but those are all I really need, no? Probably not. But I live in the deepest SE London and am ignorant to most places beyond Waterloo. Give me a break.
One thing Camden does do to me, though, is bring home the fact that I am no longer a teenager. Yes, I may have only just graduated from teens to twenty something, but in an area thriving with The Cool Kids sometimes I do have to take a moment to remind myself that, you know, I'm alright. I've got my mandatory battered Converse - in three different colours, no less, I can wear a tie without fear and my grey checked bomber jacket has a Sparklehorse badge pinned proudly to the front pocket.
The fact that I have to remind myself I'm alright is the actual problem. Not the feeling of total averagness these kids infect me with. Why am I marking myself up against a girl of seventeen who is clearly dressed head to toe in Topshop, with hair that doesn't seem to have been brushed since 1999 and make up Amy Winehouse would shy away from? Who is the real Cool Kid here? And, more to the point, who gives a fuck? No one is judging me because I'm wearing a tatty hoodie with more holes than buttons and a hairstyle my mum would have been proud of in 1983 - which is completely unintentional, I must stress - so why am I looking to judge them?
Probably because, for the first time in my young life, I'm starting to experience Growing Old. And it's only going to get worse the more birthdays I go through.
Anyway, back to the KoKo queue. We gave up. We're not that desperate to bouce around in a sweaty club so packed you can't even lift your overpriced can of Fosters to your mouth without getting most of it in your hair.
We got in a cab and boogied on down at the far more comfortable Borderline. Where everyone is welcome. And most are over 20. Hurrah!
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