Little Britain?

So we heard about a week ago that Britain has the highest rate and incidence of obesity in Europe. This is not really surprising - take a look around. However it has also been revealed today that Britain is the most wasteful country in terms of electricity in Europe, and also has the most sexually active "children". All of these things sadden me.

The electricity thing caught my attention most of all (seeing as I am neither obese nor a sexually active child). I pride myself on being a bit of an eco-warrier (although a flimsy one to be honest) but these stories remind me how I actually do nothing to save electricity. Apart from angrily turning out the staff room light when I enter the room - there is no need for it! In addition my local council has recently been berated for dumping the contents of our recycling bins into landfills. I think this happens in many places. So what can we do? Are we at a loss here?

I write trying to rejuveninate those "you've got to DO something" attitudes which I held so dear in my teens (on my laptop by the light of the lamp, with my music playing from another room, charging my phone and iPod, with the TV on mute in the background...). However to be honest I don't think I care as much as I could. Perhaps this is the problem with with most Brits. Perhaps if it wasn't Britain it would be replaced by an alternative fat, wasteful and child-dirty nation. I feel at a loss to do anything and I recognise that this is the problem. How to get that passion back?

(No comments about hanging around with kids, please...)

Moon. xxx

It's another...

...Sunday evening post-weekend in the Shire post. And it's pet related. Again. Sorry.

I have been going home at weekends a lot recently, I know. But it's nearby and my homing instrinct kicks in from time to time. I'll post about that another time. Anyway this weekend I wanted to see the cats. They are very comforting and Dave does show signs of missing me, so I feel I should put the effort in with him. He is my offspring (in people-pet terms, of course) and I have to leave him with his foster parents (Mum and Dad) whilst I am living in Leeds. It is a sad state for us all. Anyway, when Dave lived with me in Durham not only would he walk me to my local for my cider each night, wait, and walk me home, he would also catch me a mouse or shrew as a gift if I had been away for a night or two. (He was always left in capable hands, by the way - I'm not the kind of parent to go away for weekends and leave him alone. Anything could happen!) The "gifts" were often still alive, which I thought was nice of Dave - the gesture was clear and no lives were lost. Clever boy.

This weekend, Dave waited for me to go to bed. He usually stays outside at night, unless I am home, and then he guards my room. I am so proud! As I was staying up late on msn (what a Saturday night! I shall not even mention how it followed X factor and other such telly delights...) Dave gave up on waiting for me and went outside. Fine. So I wake up in the middle of the night to a rustling on my pillow. I presume it is Cromwell the cat seeking me out. It would likely not be Dave - he is too cool and aloof. But the rustling is light. I panic and think it might be a spider (slight neurosis left over from spider-heavy flat days). I switch on the lamp. Ah, not to worry, it's just Dave. The little love has come to sleep on my bed after all. How sweet! Then he dives off the bed... And (after slight delay whilst I find some specs) I see what Dave sees. He has brought me a mouse. He left it, alive, on my pillow. I can't really be arsed with this in the middle of the night. And nor can Dave, now. He has brought me a gift and got a bit of attention for it, so he promptly goes to sleep in the middle of my bed (leaving me little room, incidentally. And when Cromwell came through to investigate all this activity, he decided to stay, too, so there was hardly any room for me to sleep). I am unable to locate the mouse, so I go back to bed, feeling slightly repulsed at having had a mouse on my bed.

Firstly, for those pet lovers out there, I'm sure you will appreciate these situations. For those of you who have not been blessed with pets, you might be thinking "move the cats if you want a good nights' sleep". Well, you can't. You have a duty as a parent. And it's not an easy one. This is in fact the point of this post (sorry for taking a while to get to it...): being a pet-parent gives rise to a number of dilemmas. The current one being: do I put a trap down for this mouse? Can I really kill it? The poor thing has surely suffered enough trauma. Once before Dave brought me a mouse and did a very similar thing, although without depositing it on my pillow. The mouse ended up living in my house for ages. Until I left, actually. "Humane" traps didn't seem to work. What do I do? Tom, you have much experience of these issues, I know.

Another dilemma concerns my wish for a dog. I really want a big dog, as they are the best. But how can one animal eating 17 tins of other unidentifiable meat a day be justified? It is hard to reconcile. Especially for a vegetarian. And this is before I even consider the morals of keeping an animal essentially locked up in a house. What to do?!

I think that pet keeping is quite a selfish act. Animal lovers want to enjoy their pets. And they are great to have around. But being a parent is not an easy thing. And morally I am still trying to work through these issues. However as an animal lover you end up wanting to fight battles on behalf of your offspring. I fear for my poor real offspring, when they enter the world. You do what you've got to do for your offpsring. So perhaps I'll leave the mouse. Dave might want to befriend the mouse again in the near future.

Moon. xxx

mystery marks

I have been after another tattoo for a few months. I decided upon a simple crescent shape on my ankle. However I could not find the perfect moon anywhere, despite hunting for some time. This morning I awoke, not to discover beautiful spiders webs covered in dew, but to this on my wrist:




What kind of strange pink mark is this? Where on earth has it come from? These questions I cannot answer. But what I can do is get my fat arse down to a tatt studio and get the real thing!

Moon. xxx

web of science

I was roped into DIYing in Banbury this weekend. So much for my sister wanting to see me. However, it has been a nice, rural weekend. I don't usually consider rural living to be nice. Rather, I resent my deprived childhood. There really is so little to do when growing up in the middle of nowhere. This weekend, though, was relaxing and, at times, nostalgic.

I awoke on Saturday morning, bright and early (although a little achey - Cromwell the cat insists on affectionately sleeping with his paws around my neck when I go home) to a fresh October morning. My parents' garden looked a little different to normal:





I couldn't believe that there were so many spiders webs. Mother immediately told me not to blog about them in case it showed off her home to be unclean. These webs are not normally visible, though. The dew here just highlights them. Sadly I couldn't get a good enough picture of how beautiful they actually were. This is probably my best:



I know - I needed something dark behind it! Anyway, I feel bad for moaning about these little beasties in previous posts. I don't really want them all over me, but they sure are better at spiragraph than I ever was. Their webs are quite something.

After DIYing yesterday, today involved visiting my grandparents' farm. It was actually nice to see some calves (oh and my family) after living in the city for a while. We then visited a small hamlet that I have vague recollections of: we had gone conker hunting there many years ago and I had subsequently dreamed about the place, so we went to see if my memories were accurate. They pretty much were. But it was nice! Before returning to Leeds we went to the nearby farm for eggs (I had a pancake craving - when needs must...) and I was shown around the whole place. They have donkeys and peacocks as well as the usual rams etc. Next time I won't wear my best boots.

So, although I am not quite ready to trade in my relatively hectic lifestyle, a weekend in't country was quite refreshing for once. And, this is the best time of year for it. I am counting down to the end of the month when all the leaves have fallen, so I can skip through them like a child. Autumn's alright!

Moon. xxx

an update

Quick post before heading to Banbury for le weekend...

Last night I went out for a meal and drink with Munch. Luckily we found a seat with an optimal view for observing the (river)dancefloor activity whilst we supped our drinks. Of especial interest was an exceedingly drunk young chap who was acting in a very camp manner, as he was attracting the attention of a girl who can only be described as desperate. Now I know that last time Mary Whitehouse reared her head on this blog, it was to highlight the horrendous behaviours of young men on the pull. So just to show that this feminist is also stroppy about dirty girls, I shall briefly rant on the topic. The girl in question was directing all her behaviour at this (gay) man, and couldn't stop monitoring whether he was interested or not. He was not. It got to the point of her groping him in his special place at one point. It was utterly sickening and I felt highly embarrassed for the girl. But, not only do I think that someone should have told her not to do this (despite being entertaining, to an extent), I also worry about the fact that this behaviour is becoming increasingly normal. Why should this individual feel desperate enough to shame herself in this way? Tis a sorry state of affairs. I imagine that if this girl didn't go home alone, she went home with the (gay) man's (straight) friend.

Moon. xxx

PS It was funny to watch, though.

The (10) best things in life are...

I seem to have established a bit of a reputation for stropping about a bit. So, in a truly self-indulgent post, I aim to remind myself of some of the things in life that ain't so bad. (I also have a few friends visiting the site nowadays and they want evidence of what I'm up to...)

(Moon wracks brains)

...and they're not for free.

(1) Food. Heifer over here sure likes to eat. And what can be more satisfying than a good piece of fat 'n' sugar combo: cake. Look at that bint getting her gob round that twister. Speaking of which, they should probably get a mention of their own, but they fall under this category: iced smoothies. Delicious. And good for you. Must be the only edible stuff that ticks both those boxes.



(2) Drink. See a theme? Look how smarmy I look now that I am holding a bottle of cheap vinegary vino. Yesss.



(3) Music. Live music. Creating live music (don't have any digi pics from old singing days). Look how happy I look at this festival. Incidentally, the pose reflects how I don't really like the hand sanitiser. It doesn't make you feel clean. It's not nice. But this is meant to be a happy post! Moving on...



(4) Training about at weekends. Studying train routes along the way. Getting to explore this green and pleasant land. This is the best thing about life at the moment.



(5) People on debt adverts. They are so stupid that if you're ever feeling down, you can easily be reminded how wise you are.
"I went shopping and spent £60,000. I don't even work. I re-mortgaged my house and now my bank doesn't like me. But hang on, someone is willing to save the day by getting me into even more debt! For longer! I don't know what interest is, but it sounds nice. Perhaps someone good with numbers like Carol Vorderman can convince me a little more..."

(6) My flat. Yes it is a bit of a zoo but for the first time ever I feel quite settled. The place is more than big enough to maintain all my junk and I can be reasonably loud without feeling too guilty about it. There's a guy nextdoor who plays the piano (and thinks he can sing, but so do I) so we sing together through the walls occsaionally. If I ever clear the other things at the top of the things to do list, I'll re-introduce Ethel into my life. Ethel is my prize possession; my saxophone. Beautiful.



(7) Boots. Scarves. Beads. General acessories. The affordable and less pretentious way to brighten up your daily attire. And (reinforcing point 6) I have a whole porch dedicated to footwear!



(8) The BBC news website. Manageable chunks of high quality journalism.

(9) Radio 2. The perfect balance of making you feel a little bit clever for listening to it, whilst being comprehensible (I haven't yet progressed to R4) AND great music! All kinds of music. Incidentally this unintentional "I don't mind paying my license fee" spiel reflects how my opinion of the BBC has changed quite drastically of late. I think it's dramas are generally poor and extremely over-budgeted (The Hustle, par example). Channel 4 did a superb job with Shameless, and C4's comedy is much better and less contrived. However the BBC have the best damned news team in the world. I assume.

(10) Sitting on my fat arse. Rest and recouperation is highly underrated. It is easy to overwork, in this day in age, and I am a forceful proponent of the taking time out appoach. Yeah. Peace out.




Moon. xxx

PS An honorary (11): blogging. Look how it's amused me all night; trying to upload pictures. Failing. Incorporating the "Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage" message into my hypnogogic imagery.

Seeing as I've exceeded the 10 point limit, what harm will one more do?

(12) Stropping. It's functional. And sometimes it's very necessary. Bloody blogger!

Introducing...

Pathetically, I have been trying to blog for the past hour or so, and blogger is being a right pain. No pictures are allowed to be uploaded. It refused my interesting post, but it will allow this (there was an interesting post, honest! But you've missed it now...). I had uploaded it as an experiment, but it worked so I may as well introduce my fine cat, Dave Horton. And no, I don't mean my departmental Jack Straw-esque namesake. This is evidently Dave the Cat.






PS Why is blogging so addictive? I have spent ages on this site this evening. I need to improve my extra curricular activities (the shameful list currently comprises: singing (but that is mood dependent, of course), buying boots and impersonating people.

Moon.xxx

A tasty alternative

Lunchtimes are becoming increasingly stressful. Not only are there now more students around the place than ever before, the Union has also rearranged itself so to maximally hold you up whilst buying your sandwich. However, "every cloud..." I thought, as I spied this feast in the Chiller:



What a change!

The manufacturers had kindly reminded me which way up to carry my lunch...




Upon returning to the office for scoffing purposes, I opened my lunch, expecting to find chopsticks. However I instead find lolly sticks, that look as if they should clip together to create some exciting contraption.



But no, they're just lolly sticks.

Luckily aforementioned lunch was tasty after all (I managed to find a fork). If only they could be sold somewhere whereby I don't have to queue for 17 hours...

In case you'd forgotten, and you like the sight of this novel cuisine, they go this way up:




Moon. xxx

isn't this ironic???

I certainly hope not!

I have been researching those intensive driving lessons. You know, those residential ones. Meant to be cheaper. Anyway, they have been called "crash courses".

Moon. xxx

The Lincs Effect: by Mary Whitehouse

This weekend I visited Nottingham.

I amusingly join in with the Nottingham piss-taking, at times, although I do feel that the place has a hard time. It's crime-infested sterotype came from a one-off article in the Sun about 3 years ago. If we believed everything we read, my home town would also be the easiest place to get hold of hard drugs in the country, and my old secondary school would also be the most violent of all schools. Thanks to The Guardian and the News of the World, respectively, for those snippets. Nottingham is a place that I am reasonably familiar with and on Saturday I enjoyed a lavish lunch with an old friend in my favourite restaurant, and a relaxing afternoon.

However, as is typical in my blog posts, the story takes a sorry turn. But my reason for posting is not the usual cathasis; today I would like some advice.

In order of celebrating a friend's birthday, 7 girls from Lincoln arrived in Nottingham for a meal and a boogie. Although I wasn't particularly in the mood, it is always great to see my close friends, and so I was looking forward to a drink or two and a chat. However, I was utterly appalled at the behaviour of some of the people in the pubs and club that I'm afraid I didn't have a great time at all.

After our meal we went for a drink in a busy bar. A middle aged man was dancing nearby and stuck his lardy bum on my friend's back for a while (we were sat down - she is not just incredibly tall. Actually, she is quite tall...). As I do not take kindly to men leering about I promptly told him that he had no right to do this and should stop being so vile. He reacted by swearing profusely at me and dancing off like a wanker. His friend apologised, and I was mildly calmed. However my friend who had been on the receiving end of this arse jive looked embarrassed for me having kicked up a stink. This really riles me: men have NO RIGHT WHATSOEVER to drape their hands (or arses) on people. It is precisely because people do not berate them enough that they think it is OK to do it. Once we had arrived at the club, I almost got in fights 4 more times. I'm not saying that the female genre do not partake in groping behaviours themselves from time to time, but I began studying this behaviour and the men certainly were leering for most of the time. I was mightily offended. The worst thing was that as soon as I would politely(ish) inform these men as to the error of their ways, they would look at me as if I had no right to do so, and I was the rude one.

Now I know I don't go out dancing as often as I used to, but I can scarely believe that things have changed this much over the past few months. I am outraged by the females who find it complimentary when dirty men drape themselves about. I am disgusted by the fact that you cannot go out just for a dance anymore: activity in clubs consist of mating rituals only. And finally, I am absolutely horrified by this:




Yes, folks, it's a machine selling not only thongs (in case you're wearing your big pants when you get lucky, or your other cheap diamante thong snaps) but also... pregnancy tests. My mother only recently discovered that you can buy vibrators from machines in some public toilets. I, too, find this a little odd. However she has also informed me that you can buy spray on pheromones. And I don't mean the Ramones' tribute band (sp. PheRamones, though, of course). I worry where these pheromones came from. Anyway, I think that Nottingham's pregnancy tests are a whole new milestone in the downward trajectory of vileness.

So, my questions to you are as follows: am I out of touch with the going out thang? Is it just Nottingham (I certainly doubt it)? Is this a natural reaction that matures with age? Or am I just an arsy prude?

Moon. xxx