School's Out

And I'm SO BORED.

I only technically finished last Thursday when I submitted my last exam but in reality I've been relaxing since I submitted my final essay for the semester on the 30th. During term there's always a list of things I'll do once I have time, but come break hey there goes all my lists and my motivation to remember what I wanted/needed to do. So I end up bored.

It's not like I've not been trying to keep busy. Every day it's not raining (which is so few recently!) I've been out walking the dogs. Since the 1st I've written over 28,000 words - I realised a few days ago I might as well do NaNoWriMo as I was basically on par with it anyway and right now I'm like, 2-3 days ahead of par. I've listened to Hamilton's soundtrack so much I've practically memorised it and I know as much of his history as I need to. I had drinks with a teacher of mine who retired and I did spend a few nights out with my brother (and his friends) and my family before he went away. I've done things.

But I'm still bored. There's nothing new to take up all my attention and I know most of my friends are still busy with Uni so I'm not going to disturb their study. Work has given me one shift for the whole month which I'm hoping will change come December.

Plus a part of me doesn't want to leave the house. Which I know is a BAD thing and will only serve to make me more bored (and possibly depressed? Spending day in, day out with only my parents will certainly do bad things to my psyche, I'm sure) but I can't counter it.

Exams are over next week. I'm going to try to get out more after that. And I know there's a new T.V show I'm looking forward to coming out on the 20th. Maybe a combination of something to do with my days and something to do with my nights will break this boredom and get me the motivation to remember and do all the things I wanted to in my holidays.

Status Update?

So I've not been posting much (read at all) which is kinda usual. I've noticed I only use this blog when I need to think/talk something out; I'm procrastinating; or I want the RL friends who read this blog to know something but I don't feel comfortable saying it aloud. Which means that I really don't use it that much. Take that as you will.

Right now, my parents are away (for about another week), I have a dog asleep on the floor beside me and the other dog asleep basically on top of me (surprisingly it's Jack who's asleep on me; he's the new rescue dog so I'm flattered he trusts me enough to sleep like this). I got a mark back Tuesday that was a 90 so my Uni work is going well - even if I'm currently procrastinating the next four essays due. I did say I only used this when procrastinating. And I'm finally free of the awful teacher of the most useless subject I've ever taken. Somehow, something happened and the faculty replaced her in Week 11 of 13 with a competent teacher. An entertaining and engaging competent teacher. I'd have settled for competent! Not to say she wasn't a nice person - she was quite nice - just an awful teacher with an ah... interesting teaching style. I've complained about her so much I'm sure half my friends hate her as much as I do just because I won't shut up about her!

I also have a new job which I'm looking to start after Uni term has finished which is just the most perfect timing ever. I'm also managing to lose weight again and I've started to get annoyed at myself when I can't/don't do my daily walk. I've come a long way from hating the twice weekly 30 minute walks - now I find anything under an hour to be really quite short and not worth bothering with and I'm doing that at least five times a week. Exercise is now... fun? Just not running. Walking is fine. The dogs love me for it at least.

So basically life is good?

Life is good.

And just you wait. My parents will come back next week and I'll be so annoyed. It's been peaceful and lovely without them here. Even if I've had to adult so much; I'm liking the feeling. And the control. I'm going to hate giving it back.

But that's next week's problem.

Temper, Temper

I'm getting sick and tired of bearing the brunt of my mother's temper. It seems like at least once a week (and never on the days I have Uni) I'm woken by Mum losing it at something or someone and just generally making a load of noise that's impossible to sleep through. But when I get up I have to sit in the same room as her and listen to her lose it and I'm just so sick of it. And it's not always just in the morning. She loses it whenever things don't work out as she planned or something breaks or fails to work and it's tiring.

It's not that her anger isn't (usually) justified. But it's always loud and over the top. Sure, yelling at the computer for not working feels good but it's not actually helping and I'm the poor sod sitting two metres away listening to it.

She complains at me like I'm capable of fixing every single problem she has; and sure I get venting but venting about something I've just heard you vent about? Not helping. And she's just. So loud. I spend most of the time she's angry wanting to leave the room... I'm scared, honestly and I spend a lot of the time apologising because maybe that'll make her calm down and stop being angry. And she's not even yelling at me! Just in my general direction.

I just want it to stop. The end of the month can't come quick enough. A month without her (and Dad), no matter how much responsibly I have to take on, sounds amazing.

I'm Not Scared Of You

So my Dad lost it last night. He's been having issues recently with a tooth of his, possibly one that's got some kind of cap on it, I'm not sure. Either way, it fell out last night while he was in his lounge chair and went down the side of the chair. I was in the room when it happened and Dad's first reaction was to try and get the tooth back.

It stayed his only reaction for nearly an hour and a half. He turned the chair upside down and sideways; checked out the bin beside the lounge and then turned the chair upside down again. And then he felt inside the lounge again.

That's not the worst of it. Dad basically got within minutes of ripping apart our lounge chair in search of this tiny, tiny tooth. My brother was at work but Mum and I were recruited into helping - despite me being busy working on an essay I just submitted. At one point I escaped the room to take the garbage out and got caught up taking the neighbour's dog home so that took nearly twenty minutes. I came back to them still looking. Dad was completely losing it, calling himself all kinds of names and basically thinking he's the worst person alive for losing a tooth. It was definitely an overreaction and both Mum and I were upset -Mum at the fact Dad was willing to destroy our lounge chair; me because everyone else was upset and that tends to make me feel the same. I was also upset because some of the things Dad was saying about himself were awful and I just do not like hearing him talk like that. I cannot handle conflict really.

Eventually Mum and I managed to convince Dad to give up, though not with words but with lack of helpful action. We settled back into our places and wouldn't you know it? Dad found the damned tooth an hour later, somewhere in the lounge.

But that's all background. I found out today, from Mum, that Dad thought I was scared of him last night. See, like I said, I can't handle conflict, especially anger. And my answer to conflict is to remove myself from it. I remember a time in high school that I had a fight with a good friend - my only fight with her in memory- and as soon as I realised being angry was making me cry I removed myself from the situation and hid in a bathroom to cry myself out. I do not like to be present when someone is getting angry and I can't help. Especially not my parents.

So removing myself has nothing to do with being scared of the person who is angry but is my natural reaction to someone being angry. Last night I was not scared of Dad, just upset at his reaction.

And I started thinking. And I realised I've never been scared of my Dad. I mean, I've been scared of his reaction in that I feared the consequences he was going to give me for actions I've done but I've never feared for my safety when he's been present- even when angry, I know he won't hurt me though I'm not fond of being yelled at by him. Which is what I think he thinks I was scared of. He's apologised for his actions last night and I tried to make sure he realises I understood and wasn't scared but I don't know if it was clear.

But the idea that he could ever think I feared him is as upsetting a thought as the memory of his overreaction last night was. I don't want him to think I'm scared of him, he's one of the kindest men I know (with some of the worst politics around but no one is perfect) and I know how much he beats himself up over things. But I just do not have the words to reassure him, especially as I'm not sure he knows, I know what he told Mum about thinking I might be scared of him.

It's a bit of a mess really.

It Happened

I'm 21.

I know it shouldn't be a huge deal; it's just another year. But I lived so long believing I wouldn't reach my 18th birthday that to reach my 21st is just beyond comprehension. I don't feel older or different...

But I'm alive. I made it. Go me.

It's also kinda bitter for me that Nana isn't here. While I am...not happy but relieved maybe, that she's not suffering anymore, it had always been a fact of life for me that if I lived to see 21, she would be there for it. She was a fact of life and it's still sinking in that she's not here to be a fact anymore. Even when my parents (and her and Grandma) had said their being here to see this day was unlikely, I'd always figured they were being silly.

Guess they weren't.

Grandma is still here. She wasn't at my birthday dinner as I wasn't subjecting anyone including her to that experience but I did drop in on her today. ...Mostly because she was driving Dad nuts every moment I spent away from her but I did see her. She made it.

Though the rate she's going someone I love will kill her before my brother's 21st. Twenty minutes is not an hour and fifteen calls in a day is not reasonable. Dementia is evil.

But anyway. Today was good and I have enough keys to open any door...well any tiny lock at least.

Walking On Graves

Friday I had lunch with my Grandma as she wasn't coming to my 21st (which she didn't know about) and in exchange for not having her there I'd promised my parents I'd take her out with just me. Because she tends to make scenes when she's in groups eating out and doesn't get enough attention and I was willing to do anything to avoid that at my party.

But before we went to the place I'd picked for lunch, she asked me to stop at the nearby graveyard. It'd been a while since she had gone to this graveyard and she wanted to visit Jack. 

My Granddad. 

I'm sure I've been to his grave. Possibly more than once as it is literally down the road from my surf club. But I don't recall going and as he died when I was five it's not like I remember him. So this was basically my first time seeing it. But first we had to find it which with my Grandma's memory was like trying to find a needle in a bunch of other needles. The only hint I had was that it was facing the other way to most of the other graves as she kept telling me they were all wrong and had been moved.

I found it because I saw my Dad's name on a grave. 

Which, okay logically to be expected. I know my Dad is the third man in his family in a row to have the same first, middle and (of course) last names. I know this. I'm well aware my brother is the first firstborn son to escape having his father's name for generations.

But it's another thing to see your Dad's name on a grave and not be surprised. There wasn't even anything to indicate Granddad was 'the second' of his name. Just Dad's name on the grave, with my Granddad's dates. It was vaguely disconcerting but Grandma (of course) didn't seem to notice. She's used to it. 

I'm not, mostly because I do not know the man who is buried there. I mean, I have a vague memory of him but only that and well, my Dad doesn't talk about his Dad much. Not like Mum with her Dad. So I never got the chance to know about him from stories- only what my Mum tells me and she always talks more of Grandma than Granddad. He's a figure on paper but not real to me like my other grandparents.

Like Dad, whose name it was I saw on that grave. 

Romeo and Juliet

No, not my budgies but apparently my parents? It seems my parent's marriage has more than one version of a Romeo and Juliet story, something I found out today. Minus the dying at the end. There's no dying. Just a bit of feuding.

First, the story I know so well is that my parents come from different religions. Dad's Catholic, Mum is Church of England (so Protestant). Neither are practicing but both have (had) mothers who are more religious than their children. So while neither family disagreed with them getting married, when it came to picking a church for the wedding well... It got complicated. Both mothers refused to set foot in the other's church.

It was solved with a deal, that my parents would marry in my mother's church and christen any kids in my father's. From what I had always heard, this was the biggest issue regarding setting up the wedding and was solved with a minimum of feuding.

But now I found out there was more feuding than this. Completely unrelated but still feuding.

Firstly, some family relations- My mother has 3 brothers, the oldest of whom is my Uncle P. My father has like, a whole bunch of uncles, the one I know most about being my (Great) Uncle T. These are the main players in this feud.

So before the wedding- but after my parents had met, my Uncle T and his brother tried to go into business together. They set it up and needed a loan. This is where my Uncle P came into it. He was a bank manager at the time, in charge of the loan division.

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

Uncle T went to Uncle P's bank. A very weird thing as they didn't live in the same areas. Uncle P refused the loan and well... Uncle T didn't take it well. At all. Especially when he couldn't get a loan from anyone else as he'd been refused at the bank and his business went under, costing him a whole lot of money and his (already bad) relationship with his brother. He wasn't bankrupted but I'm told it was close.

He blamed Uncle P. Loudly. And with threats of suing. Uncle P thought him an idiot and hot head, which he wasn't shy about sharing around. Especially as Uncle P had to step out of his position for a while due to the fuss Uncle T was raising.

When my mother put the pieces together while organising the wedding and realised that hot head her brother was complaining about was the Uncle of her future husband who also wasn't pleased with this nitwit of a banker well... it wasn't a great day. From what I've heard they had to be separated at the wedding so they didn't even see another. Everyone had to keep silent about it (which is why I've not heard about it before my Mum mentioned that my Uncle P ruined my Uncle T today) and we've never had a family thing with both sides of the family there.

So just when I thought I'd heard all of Mum's family history stories, she comes up with this really interesting one! And okay, the Romeo and Juliet comparison is reaching but idk about what other romance story fits.

Well That Was New

I realise I've not posted much on here about the last oh, two or three months of my exchange. In fact I've barely posted anything on it for two main reasons. 1) I was too busy living it and I SUCK at keeping a diary, even an online one; and 2) I've had to think over one of the more major things that happened that I've barely talked about to anyone.

Namely the thing where I basically, kinda, nearly, had a boyfriend.

It's been tough to sort out. Firstly, we were good friends. Very good friends, having lunch every Wednesday. I miss our lunches so so much; they were a major feature of my week. We'd talk for hours on whatever topic we liked usually only leaving because it was dark and I had to walk the twenty minutes or so home. He was definitely one of the two close friends I made on exchange (the fact that the other one was also male has only added to my following confusion).

But I don't know if I actually liked him like that. I know he liked me like that- he pulled me aside (in an overly dramatic fashion on a day we weren't scheduled to see another) to admit that he thought I was hot and if I hadn't been an exchange student, he'd have asked me out. It was a very very nice thing to hear.

At the time, I told him I would have accepted if he had asked me out. It's still true; I would have said yes. I suppose that must mean I do (or did) like him like that but... it's kinda hard. I don't do sexual attraction so there's none of that. He's very cute (if young- about my brother's age!) and I really do like him. But like I said before, I had another male close friend in Exeter and well... there's not much difference in the way I feel about these two guys. Only the second guy lives in Sydney and goes to my uni.

But I never invited the second guy to my room for drinks like I did Exeter guy (nothing happened! Jeez =P) and I didn't cry when I said goodbye... admittedly I was going to see second guy again but I miss this guy more. I know we couldn't work out because he's not willing to do long distance...and neither am I. There's an element of logic in my thoughts that was always there so I'm also kinda wondering if that helped- if knowing that I couldn't do a relationship stopped me even allowing myself to consider the possibility. After all, I didn't even think about romance until he admitted he thought I was hot. Well, I mostly didn't think about romance.

Urgh. I'm confused. There's a major reason I'm not bothered with romance and it's because it's so CONFUSING. If only this was a story and I could write the damned ending!

Also I need to sort through photos. There's so many photos...

Do You Not Know That A Man Is Not Dead While His Name Is Still Spoken?

If you ever asked me who my favourite author is I would um and ah but eventually provide a list. I'm awful at picking one.

One of the top names would be Terry Pratchett.

His books (of which I've read a tiny selection) are my favourites. It was his stories that I decided to take with me overseas knowing that I couldn't go six months without reading them. His style of examining our world through the lens of the fantasy world of the Disc is almost unique and his humour so close to my own. I loved his (co-authored) book Good Omens so much I left a copy at my high school library. He deserves his place as one of my favourite authors. He is an amazing writer.

...And I now realise I've used the wrong tense for much of that paragraph.

I knew it was coming; I knew he was facing death. But it's still been a shock... I thought he had more time... more books, more magic to share. I guess not.

But at least I can read his books and find some comfort in his own worlds- the title of this post.

RIP Terry Pratchett and be sure, your name will be spoken for eternity.

Merry Christmas!

I managed it. My first (and hopefully only) Christmas away from my family and friends- even the ones I've made in Exeter have gone home for the holidays and I refuse to intrude on anyone's holiday. I was going to say alone but I didn't spend the day alone; I walked up to the uni for Christmas lunch and met a load load of nice people wit whom I played games all afternoon (it turns out Buckaroo is ridiculous; Keplunk make me feel like a little kid; and Old Maid has a load of names, so much so that it took us looking up the instructions in three languages to realise what game we all meant).

That's not saying I didn't miss my family. I nearly cried when calling them at 6am their Christmas morning; and only the frustration at my uncle playing silly buggers with his internet during the lunchtime Skype call stopped me even getting that close. Two of my friends here gave me presents so I did have something to unwrap (more than I might have if I'd been home to be honest) and the lunch thing sent me home with a small gift (really a rather large possibly fancy and probably Italian cake).

I came home to listen to Christmas Cabin Pressure (the actual Christmas episode not the finale that just aired) and to have the baked potatoes and chicken I cooked for Christmas dinner. Just so I am actually really stuffed. It's not Christmas if you don't eat too much.

All in all, it's been a good day.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

Remember Remember...

Let's pretend I actually managed to post this on the 5th of November or something close to it instead of nearly two weeks later...

So I'm a bit of a liar about weekly updates. But I've been a bit sick and busy so taking the time I should be working on my essay to write this. Yesterday was Bonfire Night, aka the day the English (British??) celebrate that time a dude nearly blew up Parliament but was caught by burning fires (with or without a stuffed version of him on it). Also there's fireworks. For like the last week, and I'm told continuing for the next week.

I made the choice to go out of town to celebrate this, as while Exeter did have a celebration happening Ottery St Mary seemed to be the place to be. Everyone I knew was going, and a bit of research showed that the 'Tar Barrels' they had there were world famous? According to them.

Either way, about 5:30pm I bundled up in my warmest clothes (which wasn't as warm as I really needed), met a friend and we caught the prebooked bus to Ottery St Mary. He had one of his flatmates with him but she was meeting her boyfriend there. Once she did, we saw her all of twice and both times by accident so she wasn't really a part of my night.

First thing we did do, once at the event (a good fifteen minute walk from the bus stop, half of which was along a dark, dark road), was head towards the smoke to see the bonfire just out of town. The very very big bonfire. Like I heard people saying the flames were getting to be 100 foot tall and staying about 50 metres from the fire, I could feel the heat of it. It was SO big.

<A close up              A not close up>















We got closer. It got really, really warm. I thought I was going to have sunburn, it was that hot. After we'd had our fill of burning things- it took a while- we headed back towards the town, stopping to grab some food from one of the many food stalls along the road while ducking into a field to look at the rides they had- all overpriced but well lit. Night fair, for the win.

For a while we wondered around town, in search of something amusing. Then we found it, walking into a women's tar barrel race in a crowded but not overly crowded street. We got front road, well standing positions, as the women ran the barrels up and down the road we were standing on. Every so often I would have to move fast to get out of the road of the flaming barrel of tar (and woman) coming right at me. It was awesome, though by now I was glad I hadn't brought my camera (or honestly anything that didn't fit into the pockets of my overcoat).

Sadly the barrel couldn't last forever, so eventually the running of it ended. I caved in and brought a programme and my friend and I went in search of another race...or run. Not sure what the specifics are if there's no winner or other competitors...

But we must have been the worse navigators ever because we couldn't track down the next race. Annoyed we went back to the bonfire, which had died down since we left it. Though it was still big- I was told it would still be burning today and that they just leave it to burn out. I could believe that, being able to see the blue flames in the fire. And still feel some of the heat, though nowhere near as much.

Eventually we again got bored of burning things and decided to wander back into town.

Instead we wandered into a crowd. A very big crowd. Seeing no way around it, the pair of us tried to make our way through it, ignoring the large amount of pushing and shoving happening. I'm shorter than my friend and after he nearly lost me in the crowd we grabbed hands, not wanting to get lost in the mess.

It was then we either got far enough ahead or had the bad luck to run into a tar barrel.

In a crowd as large as this, with the tar barrel running right through it, there really was no control. Every so often I got crushed against people as we all dodged out of the way of the fire- once or twice I was again front row to it- and there wasn't always warning. I couldn't see above the crowd, obviously, and had to rely on others to make sure I didn't end up in its path. Somehow we got far enough along the road that I was able to drag us across the crowd and down a side street where we could walk back into town sans tar barrels and crushing crowds.

I had it better; my friend doesn't like crowds.

Unnerved by the experience, we found a crowd free vantage point for the next barrel. While it was nowhere near as close as we had been for the last two, we weren't being crushed and still had a good view of the huge, flaming barrel on the guy's shoulders so it wasn't that awful. Once that had finished, we checked our watches and made the long walk back to the bus stop, in time for the next bus back to Uni.

All in all, it was a great experience.

But I now know why they warned us about crowds and fire before we got on the bus to go to Ottery St Mary...

Not Cool Dude

There's a post in my drafts about my week, I just need to add to it when I'm next procrastinating my essay. But this is not about that.

This is about the dude who, when I was walking home from town at midnight made me majorly uncomfortable while probably thinking he was being nice.

News flash: You weren't.

Scene: Midnight, middle of town when I'm about ten minutes away from the lounge I just spent four hours in with the Doctor Who Society. I'm completely sober and about twenty minutes from home.

As I'm walking a guy, about a foot taller than me, walks past and asks if I'm alright.

I say I'm fine.

He then asks if I just finished work.

Now I'm nervous. I know he's probably being polite but it's late and I'm already nervous about the thirty minute walk home. So I reply that I'm just walking home.

To which I get, "No, where were you?"

...Okay, feeling like an interrogation here. "Out". I reply curtly. By now I'm wishing I had had my headphones in so I could have politely ignored this guy.

"Pub or Club?"

Right, this isn't polite. Seriously dude, I'm a young woman walking alone at night. I know you probably think you're being nice but I'm feeling interrogated and you're just making me nervous!

I reply "Lounge." Because it's correct, I wasn't at a pub or club. He, now five metres ahead of me, says something I don't catch and I slow up a bit, letting him get further away. For the rest of the time he's ahead of me, before he turns down a side road, I keep an eye on him.

Why? Because he made me nervous! Piece of advise for guys- late at night, your advances aren't going to come off as anything but nice and friendly (to me at least). The one good thing this guy did was get ahead of me before asking anything- and stayed there. He didn't seem to take my curtness as a hint and for all I know, his last statement to me was something about me being rude.

Which I had every right to be.




Okay word vomit over, I'm just a little worked up (over nothing probably but at the time it was a lot freaky; I spent the rest of the walk home keeping an eye on my surroundings just in case dude decided to follow me instead) and wanted to... vent? I guess. It's probably nothing but urgh, I wish he'd said nothing.

I Am Silent

Seriously. So silent on this blog. I guess I just forget I have it and I'm more used to talking stuff out with my friends anyway than writing it down. I don't even edit beyond a quick check for typos- my entries are usually all stream of consciousness.

But recently I've been doing some work in class on diaries and well, I'm wondering why I'm not keeping one while I'm over here. Admittedly a daily one might get dull (take today's- got up, got on computer, walked to town, came home, got on computer for rest of day) but weekly entries could be interesting? Hell a weekly post on this site might be interesting and give me the chance to at least let people I'm not talking to as much as I used to know what I'm doing.

But then I am awful at diaries so I don't even know.

I do know I adore my social life over here. Weekly hang outs with certain friends, all routine and working. I've watched so much Doctor Who with the society and there's only more to see. In fact, all societies seem to be keeping me busy so that's great. I've not been travelling much but I've a load of time before and after Christmas and in the New Year to get that done- and a railcard to do some of it with.

Also my grant is coming so woo, free money soon! And reading week is next week so I might look into spending a day or two in London at the end of next week. It all depends! I have options!

...Of course now I'm writing this to avoid sleeping so I'm going to go do that.

Procrastinating Thoughts

I have homework due tomorrow so instead of doing it I'm going to update a post here because I've not posted in a while.

Reason: I've been busy. SO VERY VERY BUSY. Like, settling into a new place made me busy but then Uni has made me busier. Firstly because of the homework side of it (SO MUCH READING) but also because of the social side.

I've never been this involved in anything.

Back home, I've work and a list of reasons to not go out. Here, there's nothing like that and I'm just going out so much more. Friends are texting me to do lunch and I go do lunch that day. The societies I'm in all have things on basically once a fortnight (if not more) and well, my building keeps doing things together.

And it's awesome. But it's making me wonder what I'm missing back home? Like... I don't go out much at home and I love it but here it seems I also love spending time with people all over the place? And yes, while I have had to talk myself into going to a couple of events, I've never regretted going.

Though I've not gotten drunk. Just super tipsy.

I'm also feeling a touch disconnected from home. Which might be adding to these odd thoughts. Mostly because my family spread my Nana's ashes on Sunday (their yesterday, my today) and no one bothered to tell me it was going to happen until the day before. My brother assumed I knew and I can't think of what it would have been like if he'd mentioned it in Skype after it had happened.

Or if I'd seen Mum's status on Facebook and not known it was happening.

And while I know it wasn't possible to wait for me to be there and that keeping the ashes in the house was freaking Mum out (mostly because the Furbies in the room she's keeping the ashes in keep going off for no reason...) but a part of me wishes they could have delayed it. It's only a few months. Or if I had just gone on exchange last semester as originally planned... but then I would have missed the last months of Nana's life- and definitely wouldn't have been home before her stroke. It was just rotten timing, I know, but a part of me is heartbroken at missing this absolutely final goodbye.

And the rest is pissed I only knew about it because I called Dad twice for his birthday instead of once.

The Love Of Field And Coppice

Dorothea Mackeller- My Country

My Country has always been one of those poems I loved but the exact image that the first (often skipped) paragraph describes has escaped me.

Until now.

England is so green. And there's so many lanes- I'm currently in the city of Exeter and I can't walk more than say 50 metres without finding a lane (and it's an actual lane not a laneway). There's so many old old buildings in the main part of town, like older than anything you could find in Sydney and so many of them are just...shops. It's different.

There's been quite a few differences, all minor really. Windows don't have flyscreens- something I'm told is super common all over Europe. In the place I'm living, I've a pair of full length windows that open inward and I could, with minimal effort, climb out of them and over the metal bars that cover the bottom half. If I wasn't on the second floor that is... Oh and traffic lights go orange before they go green and everyone jaywalks for every set of lights.

But really, I've been settling in nicely to England. I met some friends of a friend and they're awesome and have shown me around a bit. I know where the Uni and town are and I've getting the hang of shopping for myself. All the minor issues I had when moving in (my UniKit stuff not arriving for 4 days; the jammed windows etc) have been resolved to some degree- enough that I'm comfortable.

I like it here and I can't wait for Uni to start back. =)

5 Things The Last Week Has Taught Me About Grief

I've always loved Cracked.com and their articles so I've decided to write about some things I've noticed in the near week since Nana's death in their style.

5. Everyone Is Sorry.

Seriously. They're sorry for your loss. They're thinking of you in this troubling time. Their prayers are with you. Sorry. Sorry. So Sorry.

And I get it. Dead is one of those things you can't really do anything about. You can offer sympathy, and that is nice. I don't mind being told these things... but at one point it was the only emotion anyone seemed capable of expressing towards my family and I. People I've not talked to in ages offered sympathy on Facebook. People are on tenderhooks around both me and my mother- I'm not sure how they were around my brother and Dad because I've barely seen my brother (as usual) and like me, Dad spends a lot of his time at home right now.

Case in point. The day I lost her, someone wished for me to have a good day. Then they apologisied for saying that because wow insensitive. And...while it probably was, I found it more amusing than anything. Yes, it wasn't likely I was going to have a good day but hey look at how ingrained that phrase is in our manners. But no one in that chat has wished me a good day since- especially not that person. And it's off putting.

People who treat me normally are brilliant. Sympathy is fine; it's when it's everywhere and it's all you get that it gets annoying.

And how the hell do you respond to the sympathy? I keep saying thanks because really... there's nothing else to say. Even thanks feels hollow because half the time it's more reflex than genuine. I've said it so many times, to so many people that it's begun to lose all meaning too.

4. Being Asked How Your Day Is Is A Landmine Question.

Speaking of sympathy, this question is awful. It's such a loaded one now. How the hell do I answer it? If I say fine or good it's lying... or it feels like I should be lying because why should I be good right now? I lost someone I adored a week ago, 'good' is not a good description. But at the same time how do you say I'm not okay without bringing your loss back to the foreground of the conversation and well... making it all about you and your grief. It's a balance that's hard to find.

And that's for those who know what happened.

How do I respond to a coworker asking how I am? A stranger? Saying you've had a loss instantly opens you up for more sympathy but also makes conversation hard- it's a real mood killer. And there's a place it's not really appropriate to mention it which is basically any place where you're only likely to see this person for the next five minutes.

But the thing is, it's always on my mind. The second someone asks how I am, it's all that comes to mind. I've basically lied my way through every occasion of this question since. Or given non-committal answers. Like a 'How's things?' gets a 'Things are thinging'. It's tough and it's not even been a week...

3. Funerals Are Hard To Plan. And Expensive. 

Nana died just under a week ago. Her funeral was today. It took my parents the full week to organise and boy was it a lot of work.

Sure they had someone come see them about all the plans on the Friday, the day after her death. At that meeting, they chose all the major details like when- though that had been sorta picked since practically the day she died- and where. How religious we wanted it (enough to please her) was picked and things like flowers and music were talked over and picked that day. She'd made her wishes clear on how to bury her (which was to not, cremation for her) so it was just a matter of sorting out the details.

But the details. Do we want it recorded for my uncle who can't make it? Do we want little booklets? Yes? Okay, now we have to pick the photos for that. Who is going to speak? They can't decide on the day because there's a little booklet to be made. Closed or open casket? What are we going to bury her in? Mum and I had to go buy clothes because none of her stuff fit anymore. And let me tell you there is worse than walking into a clothes store and trying to figure out which of the pretty clothes you think best suits your dead Nana and will be suitable for her cremation. Because the funeral is closed casket, no one is going to see it...

Of course, it seems funerals are more for the living than the dead really.

And then there's the money problem. My Nana has...had the money to bury herself with but the moment she died, her assets were frozen. So we had to figure that issue out. It's not fun to be worrying about money when you've lost someone.

Not that I would sign up for funeral insurance. That's still a rip off.

2. Flowers. So Many Flowers.

We can't sit at our kitchen table at the moment. There's too many flowers. If you sit down on one side of it, all you can see of the person on the other side is flashes of their clothes you glimpse around (beautiful) arrangements of orchids and whatever the hell those orange flowers are that were on Nana's coffin (We took the smaller bunch home, her sister in law took the largest bunch. Yes, you take the flowers from the coffin home. Who knew?)

It seems to be the best way, after a card and saying sorry, for people to express their sympathy for us. The first bunch of flowers came last Tuesday- two days before Nana died. Since then, we've had another three bunches, including the ones from the coffin.

And a part of me hates it. Because Nana hated flowers in bunches like that. She loathed them with a passion, preferring to have potted plants as they could survive more than a few days. We always brought her a little potted plant if we wanted to buy her flowers and every time my uncle (who could never remember she hated flower bunches though at least he sent her something unlike the other two) sent her flowers, they ended up at our place within a day or two. I know it's not feasible for people to know this but at the same time, a part of me still resents the fact they don't know and yeah...

Also keeping flowers like that is a bit of work. They're nice but work.

EDIT: Five. There are five bunches of flowers. I forgot another friend of the family sent flowers the day after Nana died. So many flowers...

1. It's Really Hard And It's Not Hard At All

The funeral was hard. I started crying practically as soon as I saw the coffin because that box (so small) held my Nana and that's all I'll ever see of her. While I managed to read the poem I decided to read at the funeral, my voice was shaking and beside me my brother, who had come up with me for moral support, was crying as much as I wanted to be.

It also doesn't help that my last memory of her is from a week before she died when she could barely speak and the little she did say was to cry for help. She only made eye contact with me once- and seemed to recognise me- when I kissed her forehead in farewell after holding her hand for a lot of the visit; swapping off with my mother. It's not a good memory but it's my last one. It's so hard right now to remember anything of Nana from before she got really sick.

But sometimes it's not hard at all. I don't always have her on my mind and well... We've been expecting this since sometime late last year; it's already the reason I delayed my exchange. It wasn't a complete surprise, especially not after the stroke last month. My parents didn't have to say a word when they came home and I met them at the door; one look at their faces and I knew though I managed to avoid having them say it for a few moments as I babbled on about the phone calls I'd gotten while holding the fort. Even the funeral had its unsad moments- one when a friend of the family complimented me on the knee high pink spotted black socks I had worn specifically because Nana would have told me off for wearing them (once she realised what they were) and another when my brother pointed out to my suit wearing Dad that while both his fancy shoes were black they were different shoes. Both times I laughed.

That's not to say it's not been hard at other times. I cry at random moments, when I think about something that reminds me of her. A part of me doesn't really feel it because it's such an unreal feeling, to think that she's gone. But I'm hoping now the funeral has happened it might feel realer... I don't want to be in denial about reality.

Perhaps when I go overseas, it'll be different. But for now, I guess I'll continue to take each day as it is

So...

My Nana died an hour ago. My parents were with her- I wasn't.

It's really hard when you can't stop crying and you're wearing glasses.

Rushed to Surgery

I know I posted about my surgery yesterday but really it's all that's on my mind right now because I'm still really trying to process the fact that it happened.

Because I didn't really get a chance to process it. On Monday, I didn't believe what the doctor was saying as he booked me into surgery and gave me instructions on where to be and who to talk to to get to it. Even as I was talked to by an anesthesiologist it still felt like a dream. It wasn't happening, it wasn't actually going to be a thing. I was ignoring the fact I was in a hospital gown.

But then Dad kissed me on the forehead as they wheeled me off and I half wondered if I should say something just in case one of the really tiny risks I was told about happened but he was gone and I was alone in a room anyway, waiting for the doctor.

I was crying. I'll admit that. I was terrified and no one seemed to notice. Not until I was on the actual table and the really nice nurse was reassuring me that she was going to stay by my side until I fell asleep. I really liked her, she was so nice.

Also I like needles now even less than I did before. The feeling of one going into my right hand was horrible and they seemed fixated on me keeping the stupid thing in there right up until just before I left. It was so stuck down the nurse had trouble getting it out. And I could feel it every time I bent my hand past a certain angle- I started to stop using that hand because the sensation was awful.

But yeah. I don't remember falling asleep, something I'm a bit grateful for as my memories go from being scared in theatre to waking up in recovery. Which is actually an amusing memory to me because I was rambling something awful and it's hilarious. That poor nurse who had to suffer through my talkative self- I am surprised at how many of my questions were something close to logical considering how fuzzy the memories are. I do remembering saying that my friends didn't know I was in surgery, which I later found out was a half lie as my parents had seen fit to blast the fact of my surgery all over Facebook. *sigh*

I could have done without the night spent in hospital. They kept waking me to take my blood pressure to the point where as soon as I was woken, I would stick an arm out to make their job go faster so I could sleep.

And that's a more concise summary of the rushed day that was my surgery.

Faster Than A Speeding Bullet

I had surgery last night at 8pm.

I didn't know I was definitely having surgery until 6pm. It was so fast. I saw my doctor at 1:30pm and was told it was a possibility but until I saw the specialist/surgeon I didn't know it was actually happening.

And surgery is very very scary. Like, people talk over you and around you and it's really really cold. Plus you're terrified because you're going into surgery. Then well, you're in surgery and under the silver light with a needle in your hand...

But the nurse was very nice. She stood really close and stayed there until I fell asleep- something I don't actually remember doing. I went from being awake in Surgery to waking up in Recovery with a vague recollection of dreams (about a character from Homestuck oddly enough but then I've been reading fics for Homestuck a lot recently) and of having woken up before.

I was discharged this morning after a lot of running around by nurses- who took forever to take the cannula out that had been placed in my dominant hand seemingly just to make it really hard to do everything- and sent home which is where I am now.

Update: Nothing to Update

Because nothing is happening to me.

Well, nothing worth updating about. I feel almost like I'm in stasis, waiting for it to be September and for ALL the things to happen to me. But until then, I go to work, I hang around home, I might go see a friend once or twice and for the rest of the time I try not to look like I'm wasting ten hours a day online when I really am.

I'm not bored really... if I was, I would go talk to friends to go do things. But I'm not...interested either? I don't know. It's a tough feeling to describe.

I guess just I want to go have adventures right now. And the waiting is driving me nuts.