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My Ladybug Response

I AM CONFUSED. And not just blonde confused, like actually confused. And also amused. Confused and Amused.

About two months ago, all of a sudden I was getting hundreds of hits a day, out of the blue. I’m thinking okay, this is weird, but I like it. What’s going on? It turns out all the hits were from people searching for ladybugs. And I mean, SEARCHING. Searching for ladybugs, picture of ladybug, ladybug on leaf, ladybug in garden, ladybug flying. Any variation of ladybug you could think of, people were searching for it.

Which led them to a post I wrote about a year ago, in which I expressed my dislike of ladybugs. You can read it here.

WELL. Talk about bringing out the hate. I think ladybugs are kinda creepy, true. I would prefer a Daddy-Long-Legs in my house (as we all know) than a ladybug. It turns out this opinion makes me a Monster who Defies God and blah blah etc etc. Though from the longs bits of Wikipedia text on the merits of ladybugs have been informative and appreciated. These people really like ladybugs. Like, LOVE ladybugs. And that, to me, is a bit creepier than the, what I thought, was a PAINFULLY tongue-in-cheek narrative on them.

But the CREEPIEST thing about all this is the following:

Why the HELL are all these people searching for blogs on ladybugs? I’m talking hundreds a day. And all of a sudden. Did a ladybug save some kid’s life in another country and it just didn’t make the news over here or something? Am now picturing a SuperHero Ladybug in a cape swooping down and saving a cherubic child from a burning building. In which case I totally understand the public obsession with them overnight.

But if that didn’t happen people… well. You’re all pretty weird. I await your outrage with anticipation and glee.

My Spider-Baby Army, or, ‘Where the New Year has made me slightly insane.’

I am still not dead. Though I appreciate my lack of postings would suggest otherwise.

Ever since the time I murdered the Daddy-Long-Legs by trying to save it’s life, I’ve become a bit ridiculous in regards to spider safety. For example, if I find a Daddy-Long-Legs in my shower, instead of trying to save it (because we all know how well THAT turned out) I now try and angle my body so the minimal amount of water spray gets on it. Which makes my shower insanely uncomfortable. I tried ‘pretending’ I didn’t see them and so if, oh well, my shower spray sent them spiralling down the drain I told myself it wasn’t my fault. BUT IT WAS.

I clearly have problems.

Just now, while going out to enjoy a summer evening cigarette*, I noticed a spider, a white one, not sure what kind, perched by my doorway. Surrounding it was a lot of little spider-babies. After my initial freak out, with the thought of them growing up and running around my house, I’ve decided I’m quite fond of them. I certainly can’t kill them. THEY’RE CHILDREN. And so one half of me hopes they grow up really quickly and leave home to seek their fortunes, while the other (and I admit, more imaginative half) has dreams of creating a Spider-Baby Army in which they obey my every whim. The picture in my head is very a la Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets:

With a bit of Aladdin thrown in. The Aladdin part is where I picture myself riding the biggest spider under a canopy, languidly** waving my arms to command my Spider-Baby Army.

It’s all pretty awesome.

* Enjoyment is a strong word, as I’m smoking the second rate Champion Ruby as the IGA in the sticks that I was forced to go to had run out of Golden Virginia. What the hell? Who smokes Golden Virginia outside of Europe apart from me?

** Languid should clearly be in the list of words to be used as often as possible.

Images from: and

The Mouse and The Pretend Bong

It has been so embarrassingly long since I’ve posted a Sophie update that I actually forgot for a little minute which buttons to press to actually create a new post. WOW.

So, in my defence, I have been Totes Def Busy. I’m making Other Writing Projects. And writing an Exegesis. For those of you who don’t know what an exegesis is, here is a brief yet I believe succinct explanation:

An exegesis is a 7000 word piece of wank that universities make you do so they can scam as much money from you as possible.*

I have also been doing the following:

– having crushes on boys who don’t like me back.

– re-reading all the Harry Potter’s.

– trying to remember how to make a bong from a drink bottle and a piece of hose (this is a ‘pretend’ bong**, for aforementioned writing projects that is turning into a film project, and included a very interesting conversation with the hardware man who I was buying a piece of hose from. At 26, cutting up pieces of hose from your neighbour’s backyards is probably somewhat inappropriate. But if the kids who live behind me don’t put WD40 on that infernal swing set, not only will I steal their hose but also throw a rabid dog over their fence. Interestingly, the picture above shows a much more sophisticated bong then the pretend one we actually ended up with. Which is embarrassing.)

– scamming free tickets from Village Cinemas after I saw a mouse DANCING on my armrest during a viewing of Wall Street 2. The mouse was the most interesting thing that happened during this viewing.

– playing cards.

– helping organise my sister’s Pre-Wedding Cocktail Extravaganza, because Hen’s Nights are just nightmares in hot pink.

– and like, other stuff n shit I can’t remember.

I’m back Sophie. I promise.


* By saying ‘scam as much money from you as possible’, I of course mean, ‘scamming money off the lovely government who is technically paying for this wank fest of an education that I have no plans of ever paying back.’

** Research shows that you can actually get stoned from a ‘pretend’ bong, as much as you can from a real one.

Image from:

Things I will do when I win the lottery (that’s right—When)

I am going to skip over the standard things that everyone knows they will do. Like, buy a house/car/round the world ticket/investment property/possibly or proably not pay off massive uni fees/shopping spree/beauty treatments/charity efforts.

I’m thinking more of the things you think about or dream about and you never get around to it cos it’s too expensive all at once:

1. Get all my pictures framed. Framing is insane expensive and I have lots of pretty vintage posters and artwork by my sister that needs to be totally framed. Like, I have a lot of it.

2. Get all my Very Old Books That Are Falling Apart rebound.

3. Arrange for my Dream Massage which sounds dodgy, but really means that one person massages my right foot and leg, another my left foot and leg, one each for the arms and hands, one for my neck and the last one for my head. That’s six people. SIX. Cos you know if you have a massage and you’re thinking yeah, this is really nice, I can’t wait until they get to my lower back, and then they do and the rest of you feels all neglected. Imagine my six people extravaganza. This is still sounding super dodgy.

4. Have my dream clothes especially made for me so I don’t have to shop. I don’t like shopping.

5. Complete my Sweet Valley High collection courtesy of ebay.

6. Install a secret passage in my house because I always wanted one. Having said that, I guess that could just go under ‘buy house’ because my dream house would already have a secret passage.

7. Buy all my childhood movies on DVD to install on my awesome entertainment system in previously discussed dream house.

That’s all I can think of right now that isn’t blindingly obvious. I am sure I will think of more things.

My scanner and I are going to have many happy times together. Not in a weird way though.

I’m having so much fun with my new scanner that I would be scanning my wallpaper if I had wallpaper which I don’t.

So instead I’ve scanned all the coloured plates from my favourite book in the world, The Enchanted Forest by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite. This book was given to me by my Grandma and she got when she was 5 years old in 1921. It’s an Australian fairy story and one of those things I would save if my house was on fire and I could only pick three things.*

Here are some of the very beautiful pictures for your joy and fun. Some are a bit wonky because it is very hard to scan a book that is nearly 100 years old and is one thread from falling completely apart.

So uploading those just took away about a squillion years of my life. They were very big files.

* The other two things would be a) my boat. Not an actual boat, a model of a boat that has sails and looks like it should be in the study of the professor from the Narnia books. My b) thing would probably be my bear Snowy. Who would actually be my number 1 thing. Snowy would get saved before any small children or animals, if they were unlucky enough to be in my burning inferno of a house.

Why I would have been burned as a witch in the 60s

My friend Brad just shared an amazing thing with me.

I don’t know where he got it, or what it is, or if I’m violating about one thousand copyright laws in sharing it with Sophie-Land, but it was too delicious to not.

I really think it speaks for itself:

Smoking Boy smokes his last Peter Jackson…

Below we have the last entry from Smoking Boy. I feel a little sad about it actually. I feel we’ve really come to know Smoking Boy. So here it is, adieu Smoking Boy, adieu.

Sunday 20th August 2000

Boy, it’s been ages since I’ve written and I just need to. I just finished reading over all my other entries into this book and I feel like I’m reading someone else’s personal diary.

Well, there’s been heaps happening since I’ve been back at school. Um, I’ve had the school musical, rehearsals every Tuesday & Thursday night after school until 5pm/5:30pm. Plus I’ve had to miss band for the last six weeks because we’ve been rehearsing! (Didn’t go today either.) Performances were last week – Thursday, Friday, Sautrday. They were so excellent. “Apparently” I stole the show so I’m happy about that!

Oh c’mon Smoking Boy. You know you did. Don’t even pretend to be modest with your stupid inverted commas.

School’s been great! I have missed so much class because of the show. Sam, who I’m really good friends with now, and I went & promoted it everywhere.

Linda came back to school a few weeks ago. We’re not really that good a friends at the moment & I don’t know why. She’s got a boyfriend names Shaun who she’s OBSESSED with and she doesn’t talk to me about anything. I only found out about Shaun because I hear someone else mention him. She wasn’t even gonna tell me!!

Heaps more to talk about but it’s a quarter 2 eleven so I’d better wrap it up.

But wait! THERE’S MORE!

Um, oh! Smoking.

Bahahahaha! AND THERE HE IS!

Haven’t stopped. Melanie reckons she quit although she never actually smoked. I saw her and she only puffs at it – doesn’t draw it in! I smoke “Winnie Golds” now. I like them because they’re not as harsh as PJs. I smoke openly now with everyone. What I mean by that is that everyone knows I smoke now (at school, drama, etc.).

Well, gotta get some sleep – school tomorrow.

Okay, g’night.

G’night Smoking Boy!!! Thank you for your guest appearances and the joy you have given to ex-teenagers everywhere!

I have been trumped by an 8-year-old. Good on him.

It was raining like hell, if hell rains at all.

Grade Three student.

Yeah, that’s right, GRADE THREE! A friend of mine is a primary school teacher and was correcting workbooks when she came across that gem of a sentence and shared it with me. Beautiful.

I am stunted by the genius of a grade three boy. So I think it’s best if I just smoke a cigarette, eat a chocolate teddy bear biscuit, smoke a cigarette, and go to bed. In that order.

And yes, I did mean to write ‘smoke a cigarette’ twice.


This post was orginally a little longer. There was a lengthy paragraph exclusively about the correct use of grammar, and inviting readers to answer my grammar queary.

My sister commented. THE ANSWER WAS SO OBVIOUS THAT I COULDN’T KEEP MY QUESTION UP IN THE PUBLIC EYE. It was too, too humiliating. At first I thought I would publically put my hands up and say yes, look how silly I am, laugh with me! But there would be no laughing with me. There would be a lot of laughing at me. And so it had to go, and the comment with it.

So I would like to give a shout out to my sister for proving that you can dye your hair as much as you want. But once a blonde, always a blonde.

Smoking Boy in a poignant moment of self-assessment

Saturday 1st July 2000

Sorry I didn’t write last night. I went straight to sleep. I was watching Steel Magnolias -> Great Movie (chick-flick).

My sister went to Horsham yesterday with Nan & a friend. Mum & I got out some videos today while Dad was at the footie with Kyle & Jack. Today I watched House on Haunted Hill (yeah, ALRIGHT movie) and Guarding Tess (yeah, ABSOLUTELY EXCELENT movie)!

Come on Smoking Boy, this is boring. Speed it up a little.

No smoking today.

And he’s back.

My lighter ran out which is pretty dodgey. I got some matches so it’s alright but I still need to get a lighter. I had no time and no place to smoke today. Mum & dad went out but I didn’t have enough time.

Time was a big deal for the smoking teen. Especially if you had very limited time before you got picked up by a parent, or said parent was coming home from a day/night out. You have to cover the lingering smell somehow. Here are some handy tips for the time pressed smoking teen to cover the tobacco flavour:

Impulse deodorant, or Lynx, is your friend. Keep it handy.

Hand washing. Use plenty of soap. Or, if you’re getting picked up by a parent from somewhere and there’s no soap available, picking a fragrant flower and rubbing the petals with your smoking hand works wonders.

The ‘jumper swap’. This is a must. If you’re getting picked up from somewhere that doesn’t have your wardrobe in the immediate vicinity, keep a freshly laundered spare jumper in your bag you can put on. If they comment on the change of attire, you can either claim spillage, or the reverse psychology tactic, which goes something like ‘yeah, Mary was smoking and made my jumper stink. It was totally gross.’ This excuse is for experienced smokers only, but is a total conversation stopper if you can pull it off.

Chewy. Tic tacs. Teeth brushing. None will work as well as the sweet smell of Blistex. Don’t eat it though. Cos it’s gross.

I feel it’s my duty to tell you though that helpful these methods may be, they are nothing against the bloodhound noses of parents. So if you still get caught, don’t blame me.

Back to Smoking Boy, in truly the most beautiful adolescent literary extract it has been my privilege to read:

My life is excellent. The following is a list of everything that is great at the moment:
•    My wardrobe – looks & feels
•    My love life – Linda = gone, out of it / looking for someone new
•    My friendships – Jack is great / Dave back as best friend
•    My family life – my sister gone for a week / no hassles from olds
•    My school life – no school at the moment
•    My bedroom – looks & feels

I have no words to express my love for the above sentences. None.

The only thing not going really well is my financial situation. I need a job or at least some money. I have to buy a new lighter and some smokes when I can.

I also need to get my band career up and running. I mean, my teacher said my technique was excellent and I was really good so now I should apply that to getting gigs and stuff.

Well, I suppose I should get some sleep. Pete said he might have smokes tomorrow – not sure – he said he might. Alrighty then –

Smoking Boy is an awesome name for a band.

Playing with paper dollies will Never, Ever, stop being fun.

I just bought a really pretty new printer/scanner and I’ve been having lots of fun scanning my vintage paper dollies. These were given to me by my mother when I was little, and they were given to her by her godmother when she was little. And then my mother’s godmother got them when she was a little girl way back when.

Way back when was when my Grandma was also a little girl so that would have been in the 1920s. I might put the Wikipedia thingy here [cite needed] cos I don’t actually know when my mother’s godmother got them. Let’s just say the ’20s for the sake of it and my mother can confirm this at a later time.

So these dollies have been played with for something like 90 years or thereabouts, and I must say that three generations of little girls have taken pretty spectacular care of them.

Here are some of them for your viewing pleasure. (They really are very pretty and fun.)

People are weird and creepy.

Some time I ago posted this, commenting on the fact that weird tags generate blog hits when weird people look for weird things.

I don’t think I’ve seen more charming proof of this then when I looked at my stats today and saw that someone had been led straight to Sophie after searching for this little gem:


The Return of Smoking Boy, laughing and sharing one Peter Jackson at a time.

The other day I was talking with my mother who remarked on the fact she hadn’t seen an update on my blog lately. Then she said, ‘I really want to know what Smoking Boy is up to’, like he was some kind of superhero. Which would be totally awesome.

So here is the latest entry from Smoking Boy, illustrated by this insanely appropriate picture I found courtesy of Google Images and Motivated Posters.

29th June 2000

Wow! The last two days have bean heaven and hell for me. I got  lighter off Dave yesterday and smoked heaps. The first morning break I had 2 PJ’s, ate a small Mars Bar and then lit up again. I had to give half away to Tom cause I couldn’t last.

Trouble is brewing for Smoking Boy. His very powers seem to be acting as a kryptonite against him.

Last night Dave stayed over and we smoked out the window. The room smelt so bad in the morning. Mum & Dad seem like they know something but I’m not sure. I think it’s just Mum being really suspicious.

No shit Smoking Boy. You smoked out a window, room smelt like smoke, Mum is suspicious. It’s a fairly linear cause and effect equation.

I felt SO sick after last night. We had approximately 20 mins sleep. Dave smoked about eight and I had four or five. He is so… grouse (for need of a better word). We have so much fun together – when we play or not.

Smoking Boy is totally getting out-smoked by his side kick Band Boy and he can’t even tell. Smoking Boy needs to sharpen up.

Melanie rang tonight and “apparently” she’s started smoking. I believe it but she has no reason to – not that I do – hee hee! It’d be great if we all go see a movie and I’ve got my own smokes. I wouldn’t have to scab off Lara or Nick. Fun!

A new Superhero in town! SMOKING GIRL! Check out Smoking Boy judging her try hard smoking efforts. Cos he’s a total smoking veteran now, and she’s trying to superhero it up on his turf and shit.

Tomorrow is the last day of band. I’m gonna miss everyone until I see them again soon. I’ll miss everything – the playing, the smoking, the talking, laughing, etc.

This is almost as fun as ‘we play, we smoke, we share…’. In fact, possibly even more fun.

Well, I suppose I should sleep ‘cause I’ve got a pretty big day tomorrow.

Well, g’night!

Goodnight Smoking Boy! Until your next rebellious teen adventure!

I moved to St Kilda East so I could eat good bagels again.

Some friends of mine are going to New York tomorrow for a holiday. It is very good of me not to hate them because I’m actually vomiting in my mouth a little bit from jealousy.

This jealousy lead me to a fit of nostalgia and I’ve spent the last hour obsessively looking at photos and re-reading all the emails I sent back home when I lived in NY in 2006. And so I thought I would share some of the magical moments I wrote home about.

Getting the suitcase up my the five flights of stairs to my new apartment was fun. What was even funner was watching Julie – the girl who’s room I’m staying in – throw her even larger suitcase down these stairs after smoking some very potent marijuana, and then realising half way down the stairs that she has to go through customs. Apparently the sniffer dogs were going to attack her. Hilarious. Meanwhile, throughout these thoughts, her suitcase is falling down on it’s own accord making one hell of a noise. I explain that I have to deal with her neighbours now, so maybe we better catch it, but she replies: ‘if the noise bothers them they shouldn’t live in New York. Fuckers.’

On my first night here I managed to drop a glass and break it, walk in it, then have to fish out a bit of glass from my foot with tweezers, and then accidentally press a button on the TV so now all of the channels are static. I now have to wait for my roommate to come home from Miami so she can fix it.


Okay so I think I’m getting fat, because I’ve been wearing my tight tight jeans all day and they were beginning to hurt. Not just hurt – completely cane my hip. I’m walking down Lexington thinking, I can’t believe it. I AM FAT ALREADY! My jeans have never hurt me before in my life! Well no more then usual anyway. And so I currently have a piece of tissue wedged between my jeans and my hip. It’s actually not that comfortable, or in fact effective.

This was the view from my window.

So I’m out this evening at some random bar in the East Village. I’m out with the German girls who I like to call collectively ‘Germany’ and Rachel. I’m sitting in a little booth with Heika (a German – can you tell?) and this crazy very, very odd looking guy who could have been aged anywhere between 30 and 100, starts giving what I can only call a lap dance, but not in our laps. We had to keep ducking so he’s flailing arms wouldn’t hit us as he danced, completely mute, for about 45 minutes in this crazy ghetto style that would not look out of place in a music video had he not looked like Morgan Freeman’s love child gone to seed. He was also about 100 kilos. A young man named Tim then decided to come to our rescue. After giving the kind of shield only a weedy, pasty, white boy can give from a crazy dancing man, Tim decides to show off:

Tim: you’re from Australia!!

Me: Yes.

Tim: I just met a guy from Australia in the toilet! Do you know him?

Me: Um… yeah sure. Australia’s really small. We know everybody.

Tim: I know! It’s like tiny!


Can someone please explain this. All over the subway carriages are signs that say that in case of an emergency (and they list helpful examples of what that emergency might be, i.e.: fire, someone trying to kill you, etc) please DO NOT pull the emergency cord, but ask for assistance from a subway employee. Now this does not make sense to me. Number one: why would they have an emergency cord if you’re not allowed to pull it? and two: if there was an emergency, how in the world are you supposed to alert an employee? It is not as though they are sitting in the carriage with you. They are in the front of the train driving the damn thing. And if you can delay death until the next stop is reached, can’t you just get off and run away? But what if you can’t? WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY CORD THERE FOR AND WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO IF YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO PULL IT? I am sooo confused. Let’s say there is a man trying to kill you, are you seriously going to think, hmm, I am NOT ALLOWED to stop this train, I am UNABLE to alert anyone because no one else is here except crazy man and myself, so do you just keep him talking until you reach the next stop, and then stick your head out, yell help, and hope someone can hear you? So I am very much hoping I do not run into an emergency, because I’m honestly not sure how I would deal with it without breaking the rules.

My beautiful apartment building on E 9th St between 1st and 2nd.

The other night I go to meet Jess in SoHo. To do this I can take the N, R, or W train. MAH HA HA! They LIED! So I’m on the subway – it’s like two stops from Union Square to Prince St and I’m going la la la, hmmm, this is taking longer then it usually does and then all of a sudden I’m in Canal St, which is about four blocks down from Prince. I do not know this however, because I haven’t lived here for very long and they lied to me about where this was supposed to be going to anyway. So then I speak to some random people who just say, get on THIS train, it will take you to Spring St, leave the station at THIS exit and then you just walk straight ahead for like two seconds and you hit Prince. Coool. So I do that. Walk out the exit they said, walk for two seconds… a few more seconds… and all of a sudden I’m at The Bowery. Now the Bowery is a mother of a long street, WHO KNOWS where I came out? I sure as hell didn’t and it was dark which made me even more confused. I’m thinking, I am probably about 2 seconds away but who knows in which direction those 2 seconds are. I’m running late now, screw it, I’ll just jump in a cab. So I do. Then I realise I have exactly $6 and I don’t know where I am and there’s that whole crazy tipping thing they’ve got here and I’m like, this is sooo fun, I’m about to be beaten up by a cab driver somewhere because I only have $6 and for all I know Prince and Broadway are about a squillion miles away. It wasn’t. Prince and Broadway was $4.20 away, the cab driver is looking at me like I’m the laziest person in the world and I was just so happy I gave him the $6 and said THANK YOU!

I miss New York. It was really fun.

My rolling is better then your rolling. Get your hand off my shoulder.

The other day I was meeting George and I was running late because I had spent far too long in my little sister’s shop looking at pretty clothes that I couldn’t afford to buy but bought anyway.

So I’m walking briskly down Chapel St and I’m at the corner of Chaps and High, happily dragging on some sweet, sweet nicotine and waiting for the lights to change when a man approaches me and asks if he can roll himself a cigarette when we get to the other side.

Well no, I say, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.

He looks a bit taken aback at my refusal and says, come on man, it’ll only take 3 minutes.

At this point I think to myself, 3 minutes? are you serious? You suck at rolling cigarettes you stupid wannabe roller wanker, I can roll a cigarette in under 20 seconds while walking and a strong wind is blowing and it’s raining and I’m toting an inside out umbrella and I know this because I’ve been TIMED and that’s not even my PB and you’re telling me to hover on the other side of the street while I wait as you dip your grubby who knows where they’ve been fingers in my tobacco for three whole minutes?


But I smile politely, and say, no, look, I’m really sorry, but indeed I am in a big hurry and really have to bolt down this street as soon as the lights change.

He then puts his hand on my shoulder. I barely repress a shudder. In fact I don’t repress it at all and shudder quite obviously. He says, with what I think he believes to be a winning smile, that he would really appreciate it.

I remove his hand and tell him, again politely, that I’m afraid I can’t oblige.

The lights are still red.

It’s at this point I realise how hard it is to look like you’re in a hurry when you’re standing still. So I try to overcompensate with lots of heavy sighing, obsessive pedestrian light button pushing, clicking of my tongue, and shifting my weight from leg to leg and looking, no doubt, like someone who really, really needed to wee and this whole time this man is staring at me with a sulky look on his face.

I’ve realised that if I was a non-smoker, scabby people bothering me would be cut down by half. I would still be accosted by junkies asking for 50c so they can get back to their kids in Frankston though.

I am not dead.

I am just busy. Writing other things. That’s right, I’m CHEATING on Sophie with uni work.

How could I!!!!????

I haven’t forgotten you Sophie. Or you, O Blessed Readers.


Yet another Adolescent Quote of the Day. Because they just don’t stop being stupid.

I hate it when chicks tell you their fuckin’ problems and you’re like, ‘fuck! I can’t have sex with you now!’

14 year old boy (yes, that’ right, 14) on a train.

Fun in the Library with Helen

I am sitting in the Dome Room at the State Library with Helen, and it’s very pretty and we’re discussing blog hits. But quietly, because it’s the State Library and the Dome Room and you have to be really quiet when you’re in here and pretend you’re all scholarly…

I have decided to pretend to repost this. I am not really in true life, but my research so far has shown me that when the terms ‘porn’, ‘nude’, and ‘naked’ (the three most popular so far*) are searched for, a post entitled ‘Midget Hookers Make Me Popular’ will probably not receive as many views as the more ambiguous, yet still truthful, ‘Fun in the Library with Helen’. I should probably change Helen’s name to something like Tiffany, but I am all about the truth here.

Let’s see what happens. I have also added more naughty tags. I draw the line at reeeeeally naughty, cos my Mum reads this, but I think there are sufficiently naughty ones there to suffice. Is using ‘sufficiently’ and then ‘suffice’ in one sentence completely wrong and pointless? Probably.

* I am somewhat disappointed that the tag ‘chocolate self saucing pudding’ hasn’t had any hits so far.

This is a Grip Ball

I remember this now. I got one. But with better colours.

I had really bad taste when I was 6

I have just found a list I wrote to Father Christmas when I was little. I have no idea how old I was… judging by the handwriting and spelling I’m guessing around six or seven.

I can’t reproduce it in its full glory because I don’t have a scanner or anything so fancy, but you should know that each line was a different colour.

It went like this (I have kept the original spelling):

1. Fluffets

Oh Jesus. What the hell is a Fluffet? Hang on, let’s see if Google knows… Google doesn’t know. I think they are maybe weird pen things and you used them to write on t-shirts and then ironed it and then whatever you drew/wrote became all weird and raised and fluffy.

2. peanutbutter and Jelly (Book)

I like how I’ve helpfully described what this is with my ‘Book’ brackets. I also like the fact I knew what brackets were.

3. A Magic Nusserry Doll (twins)

Ewwwwww!!!!!!! I’m not sure what was so magic. Possibly my spelling. I do remember I didn’t get one.

4. The crazy shorts we fond at the shop

I do remember these. They were awesome.

5. polly pocket (big size

I’ve drawn a picture next to this one. I don’t know what the picture is supposed to represent. I think it’s a house next to a stream but I’m not sure.

6. Ened bluton Book’s

And here is my attempt at grammar, using apostrophes with gay abandon.

7. A box of choclets For Mum and Dad

I think I was at the age when I was all, I don’t know for sure Santa is real, Mum and Dad could be involved more then they’re letting on… so I better suck up just in case.

8. Skipping-rope

9. a bag of choclet Money

10. A BIKE

This was written in gold pen with lines shooting off it like sparkles.

11. Home alone vido

Probably the most embarrassing item on this list.

12.  grip ball

What the frack is a grip ball?

13. Magic locket a silver slippers (Books)

And we’re turning the page. Shit this is long.

14. super fuge (Book)

15. peter pan (picher Book)

16. Little Mrss make up

Ewwww again! I didn’t get this either. Man, my parents were sensible. I did get the bike I think. I think it was my sister’s old one. I remember I loved it. It was a boy’s bike. And red. Or maybe I got a new one and I got my sister’s bike later… yeah, I don’t know.

17. a feary dress + wand crone and wings

18. Fantastic Mr. Fox

19. The baby sitters club game

20. Jabberwocky

I think I meant the book that Graeme Base illustrated. I didn’t get it. My sister already had it and I just wanted to be like her.

21. a nice hat box

Wow. How vintage of me. I don’t think I wanted to keep hats in it, I just wanted one.

22. a complet plastic tae set

I must have read this in a book somewhere, because I don’t think any kid asks for a ‘complete plastic tea set’. I mean, that’s pretty specific and weird.

23. The Magic Farafay tree

A Farafay tree sounds like a real thing. Or something you would cultivate to get high. Considering the adventures those kids had in said tree, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Then I’ve written this charming and helpful hint:

the ones I’v ticked is the ones a wont best.

I think three things have not been ticked. I am proud to say the box of chocolates was not one of these three things.

From that entire list (and it was a ‘list’, not a letter. There was no ‘Dear Santa’ or anything so lovely) the only things I still have are the Magic Locket and Silver Slippers books, which are actually lovely stories that came with a necklace, and my Peter Pan book which is a very beautiful book illustrated by Eric Kincaid and the type of thing I would give to my grandchildren if they were nice to me.

Welcome to Wrongtown

I would like to continue on the same theme as my last post which was: Teenagers Don’t Know Shit About History (or anything).*

For anonymities sake, let’s say I was chatting to ‘a’ teenager. Any will do. But this is a true story. And we started to talk about The Civil War. Pretty big war, no? I didn’t expect her to know the details (which was just as well really, because she sure as hell didn’t) however, I did expect her to know the basics of human nature. Which it turned out, was apparently ridiculously unrealistic of me.

So we’re chatting away, and I’m pulling out all the stuff I know from my extensive reading of Gone with the Wind and my studies of it thereafter, and I’m saying stuff like ‘the war had a lot of ramifications that we still see in society today’, and then realising I would have to dumb down ‘ramifications’, and so saying stuff like ‘people are still upset about the war’ and cringing about the utter inadequecies of that sentence.

But that sentence bought about this little gem:

“Um… like… who was upset? Like, the black people or the white people?”

“Well, both.”

At this point you could almost see the light bulb desperately flickering to alight in her head.

“But mostly the black people right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they felt guilty that they you know, caused it.”

“Sorry… what?”

“The black people feel really guilty, cos they caused The Civil War, right?”


My brain actually melted a little bit.

*This is a radical interpretation of teenagers. I am aware that there are some quite awesome and knowledgeable ones out there.

Image from: (which is, incidentally, an awesome blog, and I completely recommend checking it out if you read trashy YA lit as a kid. Especially The Babysitter’s Club. It’s rad.)