If Art is the Weapon, Mascara is the Nuclear Bomb.

Do you remember the day you rounded up your friends, took them down to the nearest hill and made them pose for your Media coursework? You don’t? You’re missing out.

Since that’s not the photograph I’m planning on using, it can hang out on the Net. Exam boards get upset if your coursework turns out to be on the Internet (and they have a program to check). Sadly, this means I can’t publish some of my best work, like a To Kill a Mockingbird piece on 9/11, which is one of the best non-MCR related things I’ve ever written.

Anyway, since you all get sadistic pleasure out of making me look like a fashion-conscious, sparkly, pretty, normal person, here are the photographs from my now infamous makeover.


Now for the ‘holy shit’ moment:


The ‘sophisticated’ look, according to Ellen and Isobel:


The wreckage:

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how a short, scowling, makeup-avoiding teenager gets turned into a short, smiling-shyly version of Boots’ makeup section. I think it took four hours… Please give Ellen and Bel lots of valuable things for their patience… And for getting me to agree to the idea on tape so I couldn’t back out.

Sunday’s Achievement

  Yesterday I made cookies that turned out like this:

  I think it’s safe to say that putting biscuit mix into a greased fairy cake tin, with the idea that the biscuits will emerge from the oven perfectly round, is a bit dim.

  I’ve been doing a lot of dim things lately. The most recent of which was wearing contact lenses for so long my eyes went bloodshot (in my defence, my glasses were being repaired – an arm fell off again – and I had three exams that day and all of them made tears of despair well up). Second most dim thing was forgetting to ask Mum to stock up on paracetamol. In order to stop my brain registering cramps, I’ve been eating large amounts of ice cream and cookie cakes. Chocolate overdose…

  Don’t mention the lack of Geography coursework on my part.

  It’s not all bad though. For example, it’s the weekend in four days. Which means Lauren’s jewelery party, where I get to buy everyone cheap Christmas presents. I’m Lauren’s cousin, she gave me chicken pox, I’m owed a discount.  

  Oh, and I made a new background for my Twitter account, all by myself. Look!

  It is possible that in fact it was me that gave Lauren chicken pox. Thirteen years ago.

I Hearby Name You, Frederina


  The print’s a bit small to be seen from a stage, but I’m not likely to be on one any time soon, having a slight lack of band at the moment – so I think Frederina will be totally fine for now.

  Changeover date, quite honestly, for most things about this blog is definitely Halloween, but I have no idea of the time… I’m coming back from Greece that day. But as far as I know the subscribed people will stay subscribed so will get an email.

  In the mean time, if you arrive on here and the colours, themes and header have changed beyond recognition – don’t cry. It’s all part of the experimenting.

  Bit like experimenting with your sexuality, but you have to leave the house for that.

  Happy weekend, and please please please comment with ideas for II (as Isobel has affectionately named this site) and what I could write on here. I have plans, but you’re the ones I force to read this.

On One Trip, Pugsley and I Saw Eight Muse T-shirts. On Eight Different People.

  Technically I don’t become a whole year older until around ten thirty this evening, but I’m sitting in the back garden warming my feet on the chimnea. Since I’ve actually put this weekend’s photographs on the D drive already, I thought I’d be a total techie geek and upload them for you lovely people now. In the garden.





And yesterday’s trip with Cinderella and my family to London to see The Secret of Sherlock Holmes:



  In case I forget, thank you to everyone who forked out for exercise books, fineliners, Shakespeare compilations and toe rings for me. Best weekend ever.

Well, This Ain’t Gerard Singing.


   Anyway, I don’t want to start talking about middle-aged men and their band’s replacement drummer. Or their children. Congratulations, by the way, Frank and Jamia. One question: you mentioned daughters. Does this mean that instead of naming one of them Frank, you’ve named one Francesca?

  Just a thought.

  Right, go-karting photos:







  But that’s old news.

  Today we went paintballing.

  All I can say is, ow. Seriously. I got shot in the neck/ear area, and I think it’s bruising. Plus I got orange paint in my hair, all over the mud-stained overalls, trainers, helmet, gloves, trainers. Between my toes.

  I don’t know how many of you have been paintballing, but you basically get an air-filled canister, lots of orange marble paintballs (originally contained in rigid condoms) and an army jumpsuit with crap pockets. Then, in your teams, you have to attack a castle and capture a flag, or get to a bridge or trench without getting shot by the enemy – marked by a different coloured armband – then do the same from the opposite end of the field, or defend the castle. It’s pretty fun when you get into it, but the paint hurts when it hits. The dud ones bounce off, causing little round circular lumps wherever they hit you. My dad has a large one on his forehead, a guy took his shirt off and looked like someone had attacked him with a plunger. Through the protective vest.

  Thanks for the belated birthday treat, Michelle and Ross!

 Pictures, and the first installment of The Zante Diaries 2010, to come.