How not to be elegant #8

Yes, I know it's been a while but it's back. Pretty soon these posts will have their own blog.

So anyway, to the matter in hand. I was on stood on the bus this morning on the way to the train station and bundled up in my scarf (Which has been christen The Longest Scarf In The World by my coursemates. Hereafter referred to as the TLSITW - am reading Marc Acito and its rubbing off on me). Anyway, the TLSITW is so long that when even wrapped around my neck it almost reaches the ground. Plus it is made of fluffy wool.

So fluffy that when an old biddy brushed past me with her handbag she got it caught on my scarf. A few seconds later I am being dragged down the bus with my oxygen supply severely cut down whilst yelling;

"Argh! Stop! Excuse me! Ow, ow, ow! STOP!"

In the end I yanked my scarf back and her bag off her shoulder, so she finally turned around and I could free myself. Much to the amusement of my fellow passengers.

I am so poised.

It Is Indeed The Root Of All Evil

My sis, L, wanted to get her boyfriend a Sony PSP for Christmas. She ordered one on the internet but to no avail, in the meantime I managed to get my hands on one in work. I paid for it with the understanding that L would pay me back at the earliest possible time.

She cancelled the internet order and got her money back, £180. She owes me £150 and when I asked her for it yesterday I was told that I could have £50 and the rest when she had it. I was not happy. L has managed to buy herself a load of new clothes including a christmas party outfit but I have not been paid. Also her boyfriend owes me a few quid as well.

So last night when I got home I told her that I was skint due to paying for this PSP and that she couldn't have it until she paid me. Money in exchange for goods? A time honoured tradition. The parents were in agreement with me on this one.

All hell broke loose and I was branded Queen Bitch of the Universe. As I was apparently delibrately trying to ruin her Christmas. Hmmm, let's get this straight.

She spends the money she owes me, while I am working all hours to pay for my train fares and fees. While she can work at her job (oh yes, she is employed too), not have to worry about fees and get a lift to uni.

But I'm the bitch?

Dad then had to step into the breach, with eldest daughter (me) crying in the living room and youngest daughter (L) crying in her bedroom upstairs. So Daddy, who now thoroughly wishes he had had boys, is paying the difference L owes me while she gives me £50.

L and I are still not speaking however.

I fucking hate Christmas.

Silly Me

As part of my course, I got to go and observe a Post Mortem yesterday in full scrubs, gown, wellies, wellies and head visor. It was a fantastic experience, and gives you a real sense of how amazing we are. As well as how we need to take care of ourselves as we are also quite fragile in some respects.

As it takes me so long to get to Manchester and it was an especially early start, I didn't have time for any food or drink before I left. After standing in the stifling morgue for a good hour or so, I began to feel a bit funny.

Which is odd, as I'm not in the least bit squeamish. But when the tunnel vision set in, I knew it was time to have a sit down on the floor for a minute. Once my gown was opened at the back I felt a whole lot better and could carry on, albeit slightly paler than usual (a feat in itself).

Later on at work, the same thing happened when I turned around too quickly.

Need to get my morning routine sorted out before I do something really stupid.

So Cold

I spent 10 hours in work on Sunday and when I got home at 9pm I found my Dad had taken the central heating system apart.

One of the pipes was leaking. Apparently.

Our house is cursed, you see. I'm not kidding. Any attempt at redecoration is doomed to be traumatic to all those involved.

So the new radiators in the hall have resolutely refused to do anything except leak water all over the carpet.

So I ate my tea last night whilst wearing my coat and hat, I'm so cold I'm not sure I'll ever be warm again.

I believe it is time to emigrate.

My Life Score

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	6.3
Mind:	5.6
Body:	7.5
Spirit:	6
Friends/Family:	4.1
Love:	0
Finance:	7.6
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

How the hell did I get that body score? And the nice big fat zero on the love score is so depressingly true.

So Another Year Out It Is Then

No funding on offer for a PhD in anything remotely linked to my area of work, and unless I sell L into white slavery I cannot afford to self fund.

So another year out while my Prof and other try to attain a Wellcome or Leverhulme (sp?) grant of some kind for a group of us.

The irony is, loads of us Forensic Egyptology types want to do PhDs but there is no money and the uni has just given 50 studentships to staff with no students. They have no students cos their science is boring!! Give us the money! We do interesting things that get on the telly! Great advertising for the uni.

Oh well, will have to find a job and whore myself out again for a year. Le sigh.

Bedwarmer wanted

Winter has well and truly arrived here in the Welshlands and so I am looking for a young, devastatingly attractive man with good temperature regulation to warm my bed up for me before I get in.

Mingers need not apply.

Food may be provided, and to think you get to spend hours in my effervescent company.

What more can any man want?

Was It A Full Moon?

Christmas shopping is hotting up, and so I've spent a very busy weekend in work. Which is fine, but Sunday was like Dickhead's Day Out. It seemed that every other customer came into store to have a go. My manager and I being behind the tills were convienient targets.

We'd had 6 Sony PSPs in store (in case you don't know, these things are as scarce as rocking horse shite at the mo) and so we expected some hassle. One woman ran into store pushed straight to the front of queue and demanded I sell her a PSP. I told her to get in the queue and that if we had any left by the time I served her then I would gladly sell her one. She queued, bought a PSP and then spent 15 minutes bitching at my manager because she was in a stress. Hellooooooo, you got what you came in for. Be grateful, you stupid bint.

My 'favourite' customer of the day was a bloke who had come into store after I had refused to refund a PC game his son had bought (this is store policy by the way, no refunds on PC as we can't resell it after the registry code has been entered). He stood at the till and yelled at me for (again) a good 15 minutes. Some of his more choice points are below;

• Children don't understand the word software (your son had to be over 12 to buy the game in question, and he would have been told he can't return it)
• He gave me some cock and bull story (emphasis on the cock) that the game had caused him to have to reformat his entire computer (hard bitch that I am, I was unmoved)
  
• It is negligent for us to sell games to customers without checking if they will first run on the customer's computer (How is that my fucking responsibility? Caveat Emptor, you fuckwit!)
• And selling games to kids without checking they knew their PC specs is akin to selling underage kids cigarettes and alcohol (At which point my manager had to step and tell him to leave me alone)
• He then said we shouldn't sell PC games at all (Hellooooo, the shop is called GAME, that is what we do.)

In the end my manager gave him a gift card, and I was glad to see the back of him. Irritating thing was the game had not been bought in our store. It was patently obvious they had refused to return it and he had come to our store and hassled the two female members of staff until he got what he wanted.

Hope his fucking PC blows up.

A Close Call

This was almost a 'How Not To Be Elegant' post, only my cat-like reflexes (no sniggering at the back!!) saved me from disaster.

Been cracking on with my Christmas shopping and so made a pilgramage to Waterstone's on Deansgate, which was very busy as Alan Whicker was signing books (I was quite excited, but disappointed that his 'tache didn't flash on and off like on the telly advert) . Due to His Whickerness having a fairly large portion of the ground floor cordoned off so he could sign books, space was limited. Plus I had a handbag (chock full of useless crap as usual), a book bag full of papers, books and a badly stained lab coat (its crystal violet, mum's going to have a job getting that out!!!) and a carrier bag full of goodies for my sis.

So it is no surprise that as I walked past a massively overladen table of books, I knocked some off. But I spun round, like a busty ninja in glasses, and caught them! Much to the amazement of a bloke stood next to me.

Disaster averted.

This time.

Just Shameful

I am very ashamed of myself, I am supposed to be a grown up enlightened young woman. Who is not fettered by society's concept of female perfection. (Utter bollocks, but it's my blog and I'll write what I want).

Anyway, last night L brought a copy of heat back home. Heat being the sort of magazine where you can actually feel yourself becoming stupider as you read, though not as bad as OK or Pick Me Up. Heat are always banging on about how skinny celebritys are and how bad it is to be bombarding young girls with these images (stop pissing photographing them then!) and how we should all be happy with our curves. Yet this week they have done a survey of women to ascertain the size of the average British woman.

And to my eternal disgrace I acually sat there comparing myself to this survey.

Boobs bigger than average (surprise, surprise), waist, hips and dress size smaller than average (yessss!), just shorter than average (again, not a big shock). Sad case that I am.

But how exactly does this fit in with the whole 'don't compare yourself to others' campaign? Am I just a victim of media propaganda? They tell me if I lose another 10 pounds my life will be perfect as I will be thin And thin = happy. How pray tell?

No one I've ever physically met has told me my body is particularly hideous, so why does it matter if some stranger publishing a magazine tells me I need to be skinny to be attractive?

I know that magazines won't stop publishing this drivel just cos I or anyone else stop reading it. But I really am disappointed in myself for actually buying into that comparison crap for even a few minutes.

How exactly am I meant to do that?

I want to do a PhD. Not right now obviously, still got to finish this masters (and pass at a good standard). But that is the next step for me. I think.

I hope.

Anyway. Manc is having an open day on the 23rd. Invitation only. To get an invite I have to fill in an application form (I think I left one in the graduate lounge, it has my name, phone number and date of birth on it. How desperate must I look!) plus a full further study application form. AND have TWO referees.

I've been on the course 2 months, I am only one third of the way through my second practical and my first essay deadline is over a month away (am bricking it about that already). My professor just about knows my name at this point, so how can she write about my academic prowess?

All very disturbing coupled with the fact I am getting that same feelings of inadequacy I had during undergraduate days. The feeling that at any moment, someone is going to jump out in a Michael-Palin-Spanish-Inquisition-Pythonesque sort of way and yell;

"You girl! How the fuck did you get on this couse? You know nothing! You don't belong here!!"

My faith in my own abilities has no beginning, you could say.

Oh well. There's always the dole queue.

Teh Workload

OK, not had a day off for going on a fortnight and got a full week for the next two weeks coming up. Not to mention 3 essays and a lab report waiting for the knowledge fairies to come and write them.

Got 5 6am starts this week, so nonsensical blogging and general lack of mental coherence is to be expected.

Apologies to everyone I know or am likely to encounter, extreme daftness and even-more-vacant-than-usual expression is inevitable.

But I get to cut bits of a leg today (a dead one, not attached in anyway to a person). Yay, sharp implements and sleep starved Sessy.

I can almost hear the screams now. Lovely.

Well, it was only to be expected

You Are 60% Weird

You're so weird, you think you're *totally* normal. Right? But you wig out even the biggest of circus freaks!

How Weird Are You?

Dear Madonna

I saw your new video on the TV last night, and just had to write in.

For the love of God woman, think of your kids! They already have stupid names but now they have to endure the fact that their mother is pratting about on TV in a hot pink leotard, Farah Fawcett hair and cut off fishnet tights. (What exactly was your stylist thinking? Perhaps you should try not to employ colour blind crack heads).

So just a quick note to ask you to think about what horrendous bullying and teasing your children are going to go through at school.

Just think on!

Warm regards

Sessy

P/S. Why did you feel it necessary to hump that stereo? No one needs to see that, I nearly choked on my tea.