Dani

Full-frontal

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 18:23:56 GMT

Apparently I've gone up a bra size. Call me shallow, but that makes me happy.

In reference to the BBC's 2006 adaptation of Bram Stoker's "Dracula".

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 16:37:29 GMT

I don't write utterly scathing reviews hugely often, mostly because if I don't like a film or TV series I figure it's not worth my time to review it (if I give in to the temptation to waste time trashing it then the crap has won, and we can't have that, can we?)

But what the hell. Everyone has to cave once or twice. This currently awaiting approval on the IMDB message boards:

This apple fell rather too far from the tree.

The problem with making a film out of "Dracula" is that the book was pretty good to start with. Cinematically written, with well-measured pace changes, atmospheric description, three-dimensional characters and grand settings and vistas, it should transcribe perfectly to the screen. And, given the BBC's skill with period pieces and adaptations of classics (I mean, look at Pride and Prejudice), it should have transcribed perfectly. As far as I can see, the best explanation for its failure is that the creators didn't actually bother to read the book.

Written in large letters on the BBC's "Dracula" website are the words

"Returning to the original novel for his inspiration, Stewart Harcourt's script draws both on elements of Bram Stoker's own life and Victorian society to give this version of the vampire classic a new, modern sensibility."

Nice sentiment, but complete drivel. Harcourt seems instead to believe that throwing in trivial details from the original text (Dracula's "youthening", the Count's ability to walk in sunlight) grants him licence to ignore the original plot. It doesn't. The film begins decently enough (the first of the many syphilis references notwithstanding - I'll get to those later), but Jonathan Harker's death early on is more than enough to give the lie to the BBC's grand statement on its website.

And the syphilis. It seems to be the bounden duty of every pseudo-intellectual Dracula reader to insist that Bram Stoker was himself suffering from the disease when he wrote the book. In this adaptation that little shred of a hypothesis is blown up to cosmic proportions, and, while it's a nice way of saying "look at how educated we are", it doesn't stand up to the inflation, and it just doesn't work to hang an entire plot on it. Besides that, the simple fact of the matter is that Bram Stoker never did contract syphilis*, so the attempt at intellectualism is wasted.

It's okay to change plots if you have to. Disney does it to make classic stories more child- friendly. The National Theatre did it to make Northern Lights more adaptable to the stage. But to rip a classic and originally compelling story to shreds, piece it back together in the wrong order like some gross literary Frankenstein's monster, and then claim that the adaptation returns to the material of the original book...well, frankly that's just false advertising.

*The claim that Bram Stoker suffered from syphilis is based on the assertion of a single biographer that he died of "locomotor ataxy", a disease which, while occasionally associated with syphilis, has never been conclusively shown to be the same thing. Locomotor ataxy was certainly not recognised as an STD, which renders conclusively useless any theories that Stoker wrote Dracula as a commentary on syphilis and its associations with promiscuity or sexual deviance.

Eureka!

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 11:08:17 GMT

I've got it, I've got it, I've got it, I"ve got it! It was so simple, it was so obvious, it's wonderful, it's amazing and it just fits! Perfectly! See, I was so caught up in the big picture, in pasts and backstories and intrigue and fascination and so much stuff that was just too big for the little microcosm I'd put together, and then I thought about it and I thought it's not about the big picture at all, it's about the small picture. And then I thought about it some more and I realised it's not even about the small picture. It's just about the picture.

See, every character is defined by their pictures, and their pictures are defined by them. Richard is the bright splashes of colour, the slapdash and the vibrant and the loud and the warm and the friendly; Emma sketches and shades and it's all simple lines that are so clean and so simple they make the whole thing seem complex and unfathomable; Toni is the sharp angles and the eclectic and the strange and the perfectly judged and the stark and the "I don't care what everyone else thinks because this is what I am"; and that leaves Simon. And at first I thought Simon's pictures were just plain and ordinary, and then I thought they were incredibly detailed and perfect, and now I realise that they're not: they just look perfect if you're not Simon. Because he's all about the details and the tiny little flaws that only he sees, and he's looking for the perfect picture, and he's on the course because he's hoping that being immersed in art for two weeks will give him what he needs to paint the perfect picture, only of course it won't because the perfect picture doesn't exist!

It's perfect as a sub-plot: I can drag it out and drop hints and interweave it with the other lines. And the resolution...if you don't know what comes next it's beautiful, and if you do know then it's agonising. You could drown in the pathos. It's just so...it's like a piece in the jigsaw puzzle, the last piece: it fits, it slots into place, it finishes the pattern. I love it, wholly and totally and absolutely.

Christ, now I'm exhausted.

On that note

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 22:49:45 GMT

You know what I really, really love about Chris (and I can say this safely because I'm pretty sure he doesn't know this journal exists)? He's never happy just to sit back and do all the thinking. And, while admittedly as director and self-proclaimed megalomaniac I need to have the final word over anything that goes into my project, I really, really need that. He's annoying as anything sometimes, and a lot of what he says is complete crap, and chances are if we each throw twenty ideas at a problem I'll end up using all of mine and none of his, but that's not what's important. What's important is that he keeps on throwing ideas at me, so that if they're good I have to find ways to use them and if they're crap I have to find ways to improve them, and if they're beyond salvaging I at least have to work out why. I'm not sure I can think of a single other of my friends who hasn't at one point or another said "okay, you work it out" and then detached from the problem. Which is great and ego-building and all that, but if I don't at least have a wall at which I can chuck ideas and watch them bounce, I grind myself into a rut and just get stuck.

Chris has never, ever done that. He's not a rival, he's not a back-seat driver, he's not contesting that, as director, I have final say...but he's never still or quiet about it either. He's never once told me that it's my project so he'll just let me work it out and bumble along for the ride. Working on something creative with Chris, there is no such thing as an awkward silence. It's like juggling with flaming batons. There's always something up in the air, and it's sometimes illuminating, sometimes fun, sometimes dangerous and sometimes just plain idiotic, but it's always exciting, and it's always something. And perhaps because it's late and I'm tired and I've had a beer and I'm thus more inclined to be emotional, but thinking about it now I realise just how lucky I am to be working with someone like that. He's no genius and no prodigy and certainly no Caesar, but I'm not sure I've ever worked with anyone quite as inspiring.

Holding that thought

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 22:35:27 GMT

God bless Chris. Okay, he didn't actually say a whole lot, but he is an awesome creative foil. I throw ideas at him, and they bounce back in new and exciting forms. I now have subplot, which can be twisted and refracted to give the illusion of main plot, and which will be resolved in the penultimate scene so that the ultimate scene is that much more heart-attack-inducing. Okay, actually I lie: I don't have subplot yet, but I do have an angle from which to tackle the subplot, and that's leaps and bounds ahead of where I was when I wrote the last post. It's all about Simon. He's the key to the whole device. And then Toni can act as a foil to Simon, which means I can play the tension there, and that leaves Richard as foil for Emma, which gives good comic contrast, and then there are the links of dorm and class to tie the two pairs together, and then it all works.

So, of course, the tricky bit is finding a phenomenal Simon. Or, at least, that would be the tricky bit if I hadn't just done it this afternoon. God bless Rob. And Joe's volunteered to do the music, and James Reith is already down to do the credits song, and Ben wants to be an extra, and with a little persuading maybe Rose (or Alice; I can never remember which is the arty one) will play one of the bit parts, and we might have access to a good camera after all, and Chris and I went on location scout yesterday, and Lysandra's definitely down as Jeanetta...it might actually all be coming together. It'll still be difficult and intensive and require a lot of work behind the scenes...but I think we can do it. I already have so much of it planned in my head - again, Chris and I were talking camera angles and POVs and colour palettes and backstory and characterisations, and it just reminded me so much that this is what I want to do.

And Em, next time I see you, we're talking your death scene.

Thinking out loud

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 12:34:16 GMT

So I have a script, that I really need to get done in fairly short order, because there's a good chance I can actually film this one. And the problem is, the main plot is...well, not exactly weak, but a little abstract. It's complicated, but I need to disguise the main plot as effectively as possible so that it's not obvious until the very last scene that it's the main plot. It's a "watch this feature again" incentive. And also, the main plot - girl murders friend after three botched attempts - is a bit blatant. The bombshell, when it happens, needs to be an absolute bolt from the blue, something you don't see coming until it happens, at which point you realise that you should have seen it coming all along. And that's why I need to disguise it. I need to make it seem like there are other, more important things going on, but without their being so important they eclipse the little signs that lead up to the big heart-attacks-in-the-audience climax. Because if it's just a bolt from the blue then there's nothing clever about it, and it needs to be clever. Otherwise it doesn't make sense. Or at least, it only makes sense in the way that this convoluted and strange journal entry makes sense: if you're in on the plot already.

So my problem is filler. Finding the little ways to pad the story and draw attention subtly away from the main character and the main plot, without either coming up with a whole new plot arc that'll eclipse the one I've got, or it just being mindless filler dialogue. Because I can't stand mindless filler dialogue. And mindless filler isn't clever, and it needs to be clever. Like I've already stated.

I've got little ideas, snatches of story that I'm tossing up in the air and watching as they fall. A hint of a romance-that-might-have-been between two of my principals. Some friendly animosity between two others. Other bits and snatches currently too vague and ephemeral even to put down here. But my cast of characters is so small, and they all center around the one character who drives the main plot, and, like I said, I need to keep that as veiled as possible.

I feel like an illusionist, like a brilliant magician with poor showmanship, like Borden in "The Prestige". I have the trick, I have the mechanics, I'm obsessed with the details, the cleverness and the subtleties, but I don't have a show. I lack the stagecraft to put the audience where I want them so that they're thinking what I want them to think when I pull the curtain away and reveal the Prestige. I've planned the exact twist of my wrist to bring that curtain down in just the right way, but I don't know how to get the audience to forget the curtain or what I put behind it at the beginning of the show so that I can get the most out of the trick when I do reveal it; I don't have enough material to build a show around the big trick. I don't have enough places to drop hints.

And now I have to go to orchestra, so that puts paid to that for a while, but there is my dilemma. I have a morass out of which to pull myself before I can get this script finished.

Home alone

Sun, 27 May 2007 20:52:38 GMT

Well, seems like 'tis shaping up to be a pretty good half term, actually. I ran six miles today (topped out at eight yesterday); I was going to do another two but it's chucking it down with rain, I've already showered and my quadruceps feel like they're being used as knitting yarn. But still, I feel good. Trim, healthy, blah blah blah. Very nice feeling. Got whistled and honked at by many random men today, though that may have had something to do with the fact that I was running in a very mini crop top. I hate the feeling of fabric sticking to my sweaty skin; what was I supposed to do?

So the one thing I still haven't done is work. That's still okay. When I hit Wednesday and realise I *still* haven't done any work, that'll be a bit less okay. But I'm going to do some sewing tomorrow. I have a concert dress plan that oughta look absolutely awesome. Slightly Victorian, but there's a lot to be said for a good corset!

Um...what else...

Actually, screw it. I'm tired and can't remember what I was going to say, and I think I just wanted to show off my sportiness. Catch me at the end of the week and I'll show off my figure.

Emily wants me to post, so post I shall!

Sat, 26 May 2007 15:02:24 GMT

Well, I just went out for my second run of the day, so I'm now at a total of...*tots up*...about six miles. I was going to do the two-miler this morning and the four-miler just now (thought I'd ease myself in gently), but I got the two routes mixed up and ended up switching them over. Consequently the four-miler was a little fragmented, what with having to stop every so often and think "now where the hell am I?" or "is it just me or have I run further than I ought?" Still, it was a run, and that's already a fairly vast improvement on most of the last term. Between the asthma and the exams and the laziness, I haven't really gone at more than a gentle trot for weeks - oh, except for one 100m sprint which I immediately regretted. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to make even the two miles, which is why I intended to start out with that route, but I seem to have hit a kind of rhythm. I still can't go more that a couple of hundred metres without having to walk a bit and replenish my oxygen supply, but I am starting to get used to my minimum latency period, so I can run for longer and walk for shorter.

What I do notice, even with one day of running, is the difference it makes. While my metabolism is fast enough that I generally don't have to worry about weight gain, I do notice when I get out of shape, because I get out of shape in quite a literal fashion. When I over-eat or under-exercise I tend to develop a bit of a paunch, and, when you combine stodgy school food with avoidance of cross-country and about a week's worth of mild constipation, not to mention that annoying bloating that girls just get once a month, the end result left me feeling rather...well, pregnant, actually. Or, at the very least, like a small balloon. On the other hand, now, after a brief and not-to-be-repeated encounter with a laxative, six miles on the road, a good stretch and the end of the monthly annoyance, well, my stomach is its usual flat again. And that makes me feel good. The eternal pains that are my thighs and bum aren't going to change dramatically any time soon, but never mind. That's what tight jeans are for.

So, I feel good. Perhaps more importantly, I feel productive. I haven't done any actual work yet, but at least I've done something more than eat, sleep and watch TV (though I've done my fair share of all those too). I'm not sure I will work today; I'll watch Doctor Who, go on another run, shower and go to bed. But that's okay, because I've got off to a good start. So I'll be in the mood to maybe do a maths paper and a chemistry paper tomorrow. And sew a bit. And other stuff.

Not bad, all things considering.

Oh, and while I was going to finish on that nice snappy note, here's some amusement for you sadists out there: my face looks so much like a minefield at the moment I've resorted to self-bribery to stop myself picking at it. 24 hours without touching damaged skin except to wash it, and I can drink nice wine with dinner. It's a good incentive.

I'm on Lj, I'm on Lj!

Sun, 18 Mar 2007 09:36:07 GMT

Um...that's it, really. Watch out for backslashes.

Hello again, all

Fri, 02 Feb 2007 08:32:06 GMT

I know I haven\'t posted in a while, and that\'s party due to lack of time and partly due to frustration with these stupid web proxies that screw up my formatting. But anyway, just wanted to share some snippets of something I found in the Plumptre printer, which really brightened up my morning. These are from an actual GCSE English essay, and I hope the author has no idea this journal exists!

>A sonnet is originally a poem of 14 lines, which has deprived from the 13th century.

>Shakespeare\'s sonnet is quite obviously in Shakespearean form.

>This shows that he thinks love is always there and, will never chante, if it is true love, that is.

>Fiorstyly, I\'ll talk of Wordsworth and his sonnet.

And they say we ain\'t being teached proper.

Having said all that...

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 20:38:54 GMT

Do I take the risk and write myself a bottom E? Because, of course, there\\\'s no guarantee I\\\'ll be able to hit it once my cold goes. On the other hand, it\\\'s so damn satisfying being able to actually sing it that I\\\'m tempted to write it and screw the consequences. Ah, dammit. I guess I can always write it out later. Besides, Elphaba has a bottom E in \\\"I\\\'m not that girl\\\", and as I want to sing her role in some capacity or other sometime in my life, I suppose I\\\'d better get used to singing down by the bedrock.

20,000 leagues under the sea (or somewhere near that depth)

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 20:14:22 GMT

Okay, this is so not funny. My voice just dropped again. As in, I just sang a D below middle C. For those of you who don\'t know that\'s...well, that\'s bloody low. As in, tenor-type low. As in the note on the middle line in the bass clef. As in wasn\'t I a soprano in June?

Okay, so I have a cold, which generally makes your voice lower anyway, but that\'s a diminished fifth below my lowest note pre-June, and that\'s just absurd. It\'s literally tenor-low. It\'s verging on baritone-low.

I was writing a song, and I needed to move the walking bass from the bass part to the second alto, and I\'d got myself into A minor which is an awkward key for singing walking basses if you\'re an alto because you can\'t get low enough to call it a bass and you can\'t get high enough to call it a descant. And I was playing around with it and trying to do a strange switching-octaves thing which was just sounding bizarre, and I thought oh, wouldn\'t it be nice if an alto could go just a minor third lower but an alto can\'t and I\'m supposed to be singing this and I know I can\'t, and just to prove it I...sang it. Thereby disproving it and rendering myself slightly freaked out. I don\'t want to be a tenor!

So, I...

Thu, 04 Jan 2007 00:53:46 GMT

...got into Cambridge. Go me!

Happy 2007

Mon, 01 Jan 2007 15:31:30 GMT

Okay, before I say anything else...

My brother has a girlfriend!!!!!!!!!

He asked Amanda's best friend out, and she said yes! And now we're all going to tease him mercilessly for the rest of his life, because that's what families are for! Isn't it sweet?

Anyway, moving on.

I spent New Year's Eve with Piano Joe, Peter and some friends of friends of friends (don't worry, the friends and the friends of friends were there too). It was lovely. We ate good food, drank mulled wine, watched fireworks from the park, toasted the new year with champagne that had been given to one of the guests by Paul McCartney (I kid you not) and watched Bridget Jones' Diary until half past two in the morning. Then Peter and I went back to Joe's house and we reminisced about Bryanston and discussed filming and Joe showed me his amazing camcorder and I nearly died with envy. But never mind!

So, New Year's resolutions. I don't have any. I thought I'd look back at how I've changed over 2006 instead. So here goes:

I've started painting again.

I've grown taller.

I've lost weight (apparently quite a bit of it. Damned if I know where it's gone.)

I've got better at writing (more importantly, I've discovered the necessary staying power to stick at something for more than ten pages).

I've changed my haircut.

I've given up on science and gone for classics.

I've started to take an interest in politics (MUN - yeah!)

I've discovered the curse.

I've got braver.

I've become an alto.

I've applied to university.

I've done a lot of other, little things, that I can't remember well enough to put down here. But all in all, it's been a very good year. Very eventful, very fulfilling. Here's to hoping 2007 is just as good!

And this is why I go to boarding school

Sat, 30 Dec 2006 00:48:25 GMT

So, I go on holiday for a few weeks, and what happens? I turn into a fucking vegetable. I woke up at not-quite-five in the afternoon today. I wasted a whole goddamn day. And you know the annoying thing? It's not even a day in which I would really have done anything. Yeah, I would have lounged around, eaten stuff that probably can't really be classified as food, watched stuff that can't really be classified as TV, gone to a movie with my parents - the five o'clock showing, which, of course, we missed - and then lounged around some more in the evening. I wouldn't have done that painting I want to do, I wouldn't have done those past papers I need to do, I wouldn't have done any violin practice and I sure as hell wouldn't have finished my university applications. I would still have wasted a whole fucking day.

I mean, come on. This is me. This is the same girl who can run nineteen-hour days at school and use every second. And even then I don't feel like I'm doing enough. All those people who say they find me intimidating because of how much I do, well, they should see me now. They'd fucking laugh. I mean, I know I would. What in God's name is wrong with me? And that's not even a rhetorical question, because, quite frankly, something must be wrong. I'm supposed to be motivated, I'm supposed to be driven, I'm supposed to get out and do stuff. It's not that I've hit burnout. Maybe that'd excuse a few days of idleness. But not two weeks. No amount of running myself right into the ground gives me two weeks of doing absolutely fuck-all. I take a look at what I've done - what I've actually achieved - this holiday, and I honestly make myself sick. One drawing, on the very first day I'm home. One painting, and even then only as the result of sickeningly selfish motives. I haven't done any writing, I haven't done any schoolwork, I haven't even gone out for a walk. I have wasted so much fucking time.

And the really horrible thing is that it's not time I can make up. I have modular exams in January. I have a Greek course I'm supposed to be teaching myself. I have a lunchtime concert the week I get back to school. I should be working even harder here than I do at school. And instead I end up sleeping until ridiculous hours and spending what little time I do awake watching a screen. I'm not even spending time with my family at all. Just hiding out here with my computer or with the DVD player. I don't want to spend time with my family. I want my own time.

I've never ever been good at working with other people around. I keep postponing things here at home because I know that there's always going to be someone looking over my shoulder, or offering to make me a cup of tea, or whatever. And I hate that. I hate not having my own space or my own time. At school I have the common room at five-thirty in the morning. Or my room when Lavinia's out after school. Or a practice room in Mullins, or anything. I don't care. Whatever: it's my space and my time. Here it isn't. And I want people who inspire me, and there aren't any of those here either. It's not that my parents and siblings aren't great - they are. But they're not inspiring. They don't make me want to get out and do stuff, and they especially don't make me want to get out and do stuff while they're around.

You know what's really stupid? What makes no sense? At school I spend most of my time hoping I'll hit burnout. That if I can just get up that little bit earlier or do that one more thing or run that little bit further in cross-country, I'll blow a fuse or something and just knock myself out. So I can prove, more to myself than to anyone else, that I've done absolutely everything I can. So that if I can't be the best at what I do - because no matter what I do, I'm never the best, there's always someone who plays the violin better than me or who draws better than me or who writes or speaks or acts or composes better than me - I can at least be the person who tries the hardest. Like whichever cross-country it was, when even though Mr Padgett told me to turn around and just run back, I completed the course and then some and finished an hour and several extra miles behind everyone else. So I wasn't the fastest or the strongest or anything, but I ran the most. I proved that I cared, and that I was trying, and it felt amazing.

So why the fuck can't I do that here? It's just not good enough to say I've got sleep to catch up on, or I deserve some down-time, or I can't work when my family's around (probably all true, but that's not the point). I'm letting myself down. The only thing I'm doing a good job of right now is feeling useless. Like all I ever do is coast, and rely on good looks and smooth talking to get me by. Because honestly, that's how it is. Honestly, I'm so afraid of failure I'm not sure I ever really do anything.

Merry Christmukah

Mon, 25 Dec 2006 15:22:33 GMT

Like I said, it ate my soul, but I think it was worth it!

I want my soul back

Mon, 25 Dec 2006 03:05:47 GMT

Why is it that every painting I do seems determined to eat my soul??? I mean, it was supposed to be a Christmas doodle, for chrissake!

Maybe it's the watercolour. It must be the watercolour. I'm sure I didn't have this kind of trouble when I painted with...hang on, have I ever actually painted with anything else?

Right, that's it. I'm getting the oils out. In about twelve hours, when I've had some decent sleep!

Squee!

Fri, 22 Dec 2006 23:02:42 GMT

A less interesting/erudite/whatever title than normal, but I'm slightly drunk and exceptionally happy, so yay!

For starters, just had the most lovely Chanukah ever. Nice food, fun presents (mostly DVDs), lots and lots of kir (which is why I'm slightly drunk - that stuff is lethal); we played dreidel and lit the menorahs and then we played my dad's Chanukah present, which was a Top Gear board game. I'm not sure *why* something so geekish-sounding was just so damn fun, but it was amazing! We all laughed so much I'm pretty sure i burst a blood vessel somewhere. And Rafi was losing so he chucked one of his playing pieces at me as a joke, and it hit me on the head, bounced off, hit the flowerpot, bounced off that and ended up flying halfway across the living room and burying itself behind the sofa...well, I guess you had to have been there. We also listened to Mummy's present, which was a John Barrowman CD, and that was amazing too. Even my brother thinks John Barrowman has a sexy voice!

And even better - my SAT results came in! 98% on the Critical Reading, 91% on the Math and 99% on the Writing, with full marks on the essay! I am *so* going to Harvard!

And my hair has been re-reddified and it looks gorgeous *and* it's behaving, and I'm about to watch one of my Chanukah presents, and I've just had the most lovely evening. And I think I'm going to further increase my blood alcohol level now by drinking some of my dad's lovely fruit liquer, and then I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a very long time.

I am so, so, so, so happy and I love everyone!

Carpe Davem

Sat, 09 Dec 2006 16:11:14 GMT

Because the web proxy I use prevents me from friendslocking or filtering things, this is going to be one of those infuriating \"If you don\'t understand the title I\'m not going to explain it to you\" posts. Sorry, I hate them as much as anyone else, but I want feedback from the people who do get it!

Lydia is acting on my behalf, which makes it sound like legal proceedings, but that\'s okay because legalese doesn\'t scare me (much). Anyway, it\'s less of a carpo than a carpam, but at least it\'s a carp!

Run down

Wed, 29 Nov 2006 23:10:39 GMT

I have discovered that running cross country is probably no longer the smartest thing I could do. I ran on Monday - in pouring rain and gale force winds, I\'ll have you know - and after about a mile discovered I couldn\'t breathe. At all. My airways were so restricted that I was actually making noises when I tried to inhale. Reached the first rendezvous point, and Mr Padgett obviously saw my discomfort, because he asked me very pointedly whether I wanted just to go back in the minibus. My brain proved its lack of oxygen by making the words \"No, I\'ll keep running\" come out of my mouth. Well, they came out eventually, after a lot of wheezing and opening and shutting my mouth like an asphyxiated goldfish. Mr Padgett looked rather dubious, but he let me go on. Another few minutes of oxygen-deprived hell, and then I caught up with Jazzie, who was walking and thus gave me an excuse to walk as well. And thus the next three miles passed in alternating walking through the mud and running through an anaerobic haze.

Got back to school, dripping wet (literally). Plumptre showers were broken. I put on a very big fleece and curled up on one of the common room sofas, coughing practically non-stop and feeling thoroughly miserable. Eleanor took pity on me and made me a very large mug of Earl Grey, which I think actually saved my life. Two hours later I was still coughing without respite, and now my chest was starting to hurt from being coughed to ribbons. So, of course, I upped and went to string chamber orchestra. Sensible girl, ain\'t I?

Well, there I am at SCO, still feeling miserable, still coughing, and then I start getting stabbing pains in the left side of my chest that make me wince every time I move (not great when trying to play the violin with any degree of enthusiasm. At this point I start thinking that maybe a trip to the school medical block is in order. Actually, if I\'m being honest, at this point I start getting very scared. Then I consider a trip to the medical block. Which, of course, shuts long before SCO finishes. So I go back to house, still feeling miserable, and go to bed and curl up in something that\'s a few degrees up from discomfort but still thankfully down from agony.

Tuesday morning: chest pains still there, cough not so bad. I go to the medical block instead of early morning practice and book myself an appointment with the doctor. The nurse on duty tells me I\'ve probably pulled a muscle. I think about it on my way back to house to vegetate until lesson three. Nah, I pulled an intercostal muscle last year (during cross country, incidentally), and it felt totally different. But I digress. Pain comes and goes, along with the cough, until lunchbreak when I have my doctor\'s appointment. At that point, of course, it\'s all fine, so when I get prodded with the stethoscope he can\'t find anything actually wrong. So I describe my symptoms with as much detail as possible, and get told I probably have asthma and should come back next week for some proper tests.

Not entirely sure how to feel about that, to be honest. On the one hand, it\'s a bloody nuisance. I do like my cross country (except when there\'s pouring rain and gale-force winds), and having asthma isn\'t going to make running any easier. And I have been noticing more and more difficulty breathing when I run. Legs, arms, muscles are all fine. Lungs tend to give up and die long before I do. On the other hand, of course, asthma is a relatively small evil, and it\'s comforting to be able to put the name of such a small evil to whatever it is that has been killing me slowly since Monday.

And, in the meantime, here I sit in the common room feeling like I\'ve been hit in the left side with a mallet and wondering wehter that can of cider at sixth form drinks was really the smartest thing I could have done. Life is good.

Things that made me happy today

Fri, 24 Nov 2006 22:45:08 GMT

In rough chronological order:

1. I woke up on time. This meant I had time to do things like put my contact lenses in, and - more importantly - get some work done before breakfast.

2. I went to breakfast. Sounds trivial, I know, but breakfast is usually one of the best parts of my day. I normally eat with Christine and Joe; we have a fun little breakfast club-type-thing going. That half-hour or so of social time in the morning before lessons start does absolute wonders for my daily morale.

3. Christine and I had a lesson with Tricia on the second movement of the Bruch double concerto. It was amazing: just in that hour our sound changed so much for the better it fairly defied belief. I love good rehearsals. They give me such a buzz.

4. I hit the 50k word mark in my novel, and thus officially won NaNoWriMo 2006. This made me especially happy.

5. I posted in the NaNoWriMo forums that I had hit the 50k mark. The amount of satisfaction I derived from seeing my little blue progress bar turn green...ah, it\'s the simple things in life.

6. I got a good mark in my music test. I hate academic music and I want to drop it, but it\'s still nice to get an A without even trying.

7. Dave was in the music lesson. This made me happy because we had got on very well at Christine\'s birthday party the night before, and the best way to keep up a friendship that gets started at a party is to continue talking the next day. He had said he was going to be on an art trip, but he decided not to go in the end, so we continued discussing drawing snails on pogo sticks.

8. We watched opera in the music lesson. I had forgotten just how much I love La Boheme: the first act is just so damn funny! I mean, the libretto has some of the worst puns I have ever heard! Well, except in Die Fledermaus, but that\'s supposed to be a comic opera. La Boheme is just kind of...realistically funny. Real people doing really silly things and singing really well about it. And my gawd, I want a boyfriend who sings! Or plays the piano, but that\'s another story.

9. I saw Phil Dukes. That always makes me happy. Phil is someone for whom my respect and admiration just keeps growing. I swear I\'ve never met a more capable, enthusiastic, intelligent, vibrant and committed head of department. He is fiercely protective of all his string players, and he\'ll make time for any of his students who need his help. In this case it was searching through his entire music cupboard for a piano part Christine and I needed, that it turned out in the end he didn\'t have, which made me feel a little guilty. But it was still lovely to see him.

10. I chatted to Iona. Iona is a viola player, she is Scottish, and she is completely barmy (she is a music assistant in the string department). Iona is one of those people who is always insanely happy, and it is completely infectious.

11. Maths was cancelled. This meant I could go to lunch early. It also meant I had the entire afternoon free.

12. I got an e-mail from Andrew. That just made me happy.

13. I went to Christian Union. Perhaps counterintuitively, I really really enjoy CU.

14. Upon arriving at CU, I discovered that Mr Ashton (who normally presides over the proceedings) had left Mrs Paul in charge so that he could frantically coach his house\'s team for the public speaking competition. This made me happy because it reminded me how well-prepared my house team is, and it also reminded me of Mr Ashton telling me how brilliant my speech was when I recited it for him in the practice session yesterday. Okay, technically that is something that made me happy yesterday, but it had lasting effects.

15. For the first time I actually felt really comfortable as the only Jew in CU. We were talking about religious icons, specifically with reference to the BA employee who was told not to wear her cross. If you don\'t mind my quoting myself:

I know for a fact that, despite this being a Christian school, I would be absolutely furious if someone were to ask me to remove my Star of David. It\'s having the freedom to state my identity by doing things like wearing the Star of David that gives me the confidence in myself as a Jew to do things like come to Christian Union.

That got me a round of applause. Literally.

16. I quoted Babylon 5 in CU. No one caught the reference, of course, but I was still quite pleased with myself for working it in.

17. I got changed out of my school uniform (the suit). Even more trivial than making it to breakfast, but you have no idea how satisfying it is to be able to change into casuals at lunchbreak. It is a statement: School is over for the day. I hereby declare myself free until Early Morning Practice tomorrow morning. My timetable is full to bursting, so getting the afternoon off is a really rare treat for me.

18. I had a fantastic rehearsal on the Ravel violin sonata with Dominic. It is an utterly crazy piece - half the time the violin part is not even in the same time signature as the piano - but that makes it twice as satisfying when it actually works. And then we talked about Ravel for ages after we finished rehearsing, which was great fun. Ravel as a composer was almost as strange as his music.

19. Latin was cancelled, so I had more free time.

20. I went into town with Emily Hogarth. We discussed the sexy musical wonder that is John Barrowman. Like I said, I want a boyfriend who sings.

21. I had an absolutely awesome rehearsal with Joe Shiner for the play I have been asked to direct for an end-of-term production. He is not a natural actor, but that does not stop him from being very, very good. We got right into the details of the script (especially satisfying since I wrote it), and he was fantastically responsive to everything I had to say. I love directing. I love it, love it, love it, love it. Screw university, I think I want to be a director now.

22. I remembered that my roommate was in London on the art trip, so I could go up to my room and with no regard for volume listen to my wonderful new CD of the sexy musical wonder that is John Barrowman.

23. I had the hottest, most luxurious shower ever. I am always happiest when clean.

24. Weidi complimented me on my dressing gown.

25. I had time to go on MSN and chat with Andrew. It makes me very happy to be reminded that there is actually a world outside of Wells Cathedral School.

So, all in all, it\'s been a good day!

Keeping abreast

Thu, 23 Nov 2006 23:10:12 GMT

And I can speak from personal experience when I say that it is a singularly bizarre experience to be standing in the lunch queue with two lovely but completely bonkers Chinese girls from your boarding house complimenting you on the size of your breasts. Conversation ran something like this (Lucy and Cindy are the Chinese girls - they anglicised their names):

Lucy: I\'m cold!

Cindy: Me too!

Me: I\'m not. I\'m wearing three layers. (tugs at suit jacket to emphasise point)

Lucy: I\'m wearing three layers.

Me: No you\'re not.

Lucy: Yes I am. One of them is my bra.

Me: Oh. Well, in that case I\'m wearing four.

Cindy: That doesn\'t count as a layer.

Me: Maybe half a layer.

Lucy: I\'m not sure.

Cindy: (indicating herself and Lucy) It\'s a quarter of a layer for us. (indicating me) I think it\'s half for you.

Me: ?!

Cindy: It\'s a compliment!

Me: !?

Lucy: Yes, you have very nice breasts.

Hamish: (standing nearby) Mlph.

So that was my weird and wonderful lunchbreak.

Medea vs. Clytaemnestra

Thu, 16 Nov 2006 06:12:10 GMT

So I find myself in the position of almost having written an essay, and realising that to truly do the subject justice I should have written a book. Mr Plum did warn me, quite pointedly, that the title and topic I had chosen were so disproportionately difficult I should probably wait until my PhD, but how many other titles/topics could I really have chosen? Agamemnon and Medea are the only two Greek plays I\'ve studied at all, let alone in any detail. And the concept of strong female characters is one about which I can witter on until kingdom come (sic. hour\'s discussion with my dad about feminism in Shakespeare\'s plays, and the correct way to play the ending of The Taming of the Shrew).

So, watch me sigh and slave and know that by the time I get to breakfast it will all be over and I will never have to look at it again. Until I write my PhD thesis.

Day 3

Sat, 04 Nov 2006 00:49:44 GMT

So I was aiming for 8000 words by the end of the day. Failed. But I'm not that worried, because I'm still way ahead of schedule. I'll see if I can make up those extra 800 words in the car on the way to Stratford tomorrow. In the meantime, here's today's work:

Chapter 2: The wolf and the vixen

Damita was awake before sunrise, reaching for her clothes and pulling them on with fluid efficiency. Leggings, belt, boots…she felt a hand on her arm as she reached for her shirt.

“That one’s mine,” Meathir’s voice said lazily from beside her.

“It’s the one I was wearing last night,” Damita answered smoothly, shrugging Meathir’s hand off her. Undeterred, he sat up and put both hands on her waist, resting his stubbled chin on her shoulder. “Last night it was dark,” he murmured in her ear. “Fabric that thin won’t hide anything in daylight.” He slid his hands up her waist, but Damita slapped them away sharply.

“Find mine, then,” she snapped, pulling the shirt on anyway. It drooped most of the way to her knees as she stood up, and the white cotton was so light it was almost sheer. Damita’s lips curled in what might have been a snarl as she undid her belt and re-fastened it over the over-sized shirt.

Meathir rolled over and out of bed, slipping on his trousers and boots almost as quickly as Damita had hers. He turned to face her and found her standing, hands on hips, eyes blazing and red hair a mess, daring him to laugh with a look that could have roasted a boar. She looked ridiculous, standing there with her hair tousled, the loose man’s shirt belted like a tunic and her nipples showing through the thin fabric. All the same, he stifled his smile. He wasn’t sure there was anywhere to hide a knife under a shirt that barely hid her skin, but Meathir knew by now not to put anything past Damita when she was irritated. He stretched lazily, one shoulder popping loudly; then he caught the look on Damita’s face.

“Your shirt, m’lady,” he said as seriously as he could manage, and set about looking for it. About five minutes later he emerged from under a pile of cloth that may or may not have been a military banner, holding aloft something small, soft and green like a trophy.

“It’s too small to be mine, and you’re the only other person who ever enters this tent, so by process of elimination…”

He was cut short by Damita snatching the shirt from him and shaking the creases from it. She had managed to comb her hair while he was searching for the shirt – probably with his comb – and somehow he found her even more intimidating. Perhaps it was the static electricity that made her hair crackle in a red-gold cloud around her face. Or perhaps it was the fact that she’d taken off his shirt again. For the last four years, Meathir hadn’t ceased to be amused by the fact that he could face wild beasts and soldiers, famine, fire and flood without fear, but the sight of Damita half-naked and furious stopped him in his tracks every time.

“I haven’t seen you wear that in a while,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood (and equally hoping he wouldn’t get stabbed for excessive levity). Damita looked down at the bone pendant hanging between her breasts from a leather thong around her neck. “It was tied to the sleeve of your shirt,” she said. “I wanted it back.”

“I remember when you first got that pendant,” Meathir said, sitting on the bed again and reclining on one elbow so he could watch Damita dress. “Do you?” she muttered absently as she slipped her arms into the sleeves and looked for something with which to lace the front. Meathir didn’t offer to help.

“Yes,” he said, lying back, “you took it from that general you killed just after we met.”

“It didn’t suit him,” Damita said, giving up the attempt to keep the front of her shirt closed as she bent over to look for a lace. “Besides,” she said, her voice muffled by the side of the bed, “how was he supposed to keep it on his neck after I’d cut his head off? It wasn’t practical for him to keep it.”

“What was his name again?”

“Rhast.”

“Yes, I remember.” Meathir grabbed Damita’s arm and pulled her back onto the bed, hoping he wasn’t about to get stabbed for his impulsiveness. Damita rolled over to face him, her unlaced shirt flapping open so the pendant was right in his eyeline. “Best general the red army had,” he continued, tracing one finger in a curve underneath her left breast.

“Commander, I’ll have you know,” Damita retorted. Meathir moved his hand up a little.

“Commander, then,” he acquiesced. “Whatever he was, he isn’t now. Hasn’t been for a good three or four years.”

Damita smiled dreamily. “I wonder if his skeleton is still stuck to that tree? Well, what’s left of his skeleton, anyway.”

“That would be just the ribcage.”

“And a few vertebrae.”

“And a shoulder blade?”

“Just one.”

Meathir slid his hand across Damita’s chest and picked up the pendant. It was shaped like a miniature horse’s head, stylised, with the neck tapering to a point and carved with an intricate spiralling design. “You know,” Meathir said, running his thumb over the bone horse’s neck, “rumour was that you carved this yourself from a piece of Rhast’s skull.”

“It would have been dense enough for the job,” Damita agreed. “But poor quality.
I’d never have been able to polish it up properly.”

Meathir laughed roughly, and Damita pushed him away. She sat up, running a hand through her hair. “Get me something to lace my shirt with,” she said, “or I will rip out your hair by the roots and use that.”

The hulking, stoop-shouldered man warming himself by the light of the dying campfire flinched visibly when Meathir sat down beside him. “That fire won’t last long, Bron,” Meathir said casually. “How many hours were you planning to wait here for me?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you…” Bron muttered through his beard.

“Very wise,” Meathir interrupted conversationally. “I probably wouldn’t have hurt you – much – but Damita’s got the day off to a fiery start. I pity the rabbit she picks on for breakfast.”

Bron winced, and Meathir guessed he was imagining how Damita might have repaid him for an unexpected interruption. “What’s the news, then?” Meathir asked.

“Nothing that important…”

“Or you would have come to see me earlier regardless of what Damita might have done to you. Go on.”

Bron swallowed. “We can march any day. The red army has laid camp, and everything is in position.”

“Best not keep our enemy waiting, then,” Meathir said. “Tell everyone you can find that we leave at dawn tomorrow.”

“And anyone I can’t find?”

“I’m sure you’ll catch up with all of them,” Meathir said. He stood up, slapping

Bron on the back as he did so in mock camaraderie. “I have complete faith in you,” he added, enjoying the way the colour drained from the heavyset man’s normally ruddy complexion. He turned and skirted around the dying fire, taking a piece of string from his pocket and using it to tie back his long black hair as he went. As he approached the edge of the clearing he looked back; just as he knew he would be, Bron was still sitting on the log by the fire, waiting for instructions.

“Well, go on!” Meathir said loudly, smiling to himself as Bron jumped visibly.

“Start spreading the word!”

Bron leaped up from the log and hurried away, his heavy body betraying his attempt to skulk unobtrusively. Meathir let him get as far as the other side of the clearing before he called his name again, causing Bron to whirl in surprise and almost fall over.

“Y…yes, sir?” Bron said, righting himself as quickly as he could.

“Throw some more wood on the fire. Damita will want to cook when she gets back from her hunt. You know her: if she can’t find any wood, she’ll use whatever’s closest.”

The ironic thing was, Meathir thought as Bron scurried away, that he’d probably been telling most of the truth. He could just imagine Damita seizing a hapless Bron and using him to fuel the fire if she couldn’t find anything else. Damita was probably the only person who could inspire more fear in their soldiers than he could, and that was no mean feat. This far north of the river, kind words might mean more than swords, but swords tended to be quicker and more efficient.

Meathir found the path he was looking for, barely visible in the early light, and left the clearing for the closeness of the woods. He wasn’t aiming to hunt breakfast – Damita would no doubt catch for the both of them and still have enough bloodlust left for lunch and a battle – but he kept one hand ready to flick his throwing knife out of his belt in case something ran across his path. The scent of a cooking fire drifted towards him on a breeze, and his nostrils flared. A moment later, as he passed under the shadow of a huge pine tree, he smelled something else. He quickened his pace as he recognised fresh blood, drawn like a shark to its scent.

His knife was out of his belt and flying through the air even before he could clearly make out the figures at the far side of the clearing at the end of the trail he was following. He broke into a run, arriving at the middle of the clearing just in time to hear his knife embed itself with a satisfying “thck” in the chest of the man Damita had pinned to a tree with her hunting spear. The man, whom Meathir guessed to be about twenty, died instantly, the air leaving his lungs with a gentle, bubbling hiss and a trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his slack mouth. Damita looked up as Meathir approached, slowing to a walk again.

“Thanks,” she said curtly. “I just realised I left my knives back at the tent. I wasn’t quite sure how to finish him off.”

“And how,” Meathir asked, walking around the thick trunk of the tree to examine the young man skewered to it, “did you intend to skin our breakfast without a knife?”

“Fingernails,” Damita answered, pulling the Meathir’s knife free and wiping he blood off on the dead man’s shirt as she handed it back. Meathir took the small throwing knife and tucked it back into his belt. “Spy?” he asked, jerking his head towards the dead man.

“What else?” Damita replied. She grabbed a corner of the dead man’s shirt and ripped it off, showing it to Meathir. “The king’s eagle,” she said, picking at the embroidered eagle with one fingernail. “You’d think they’d learn not to fly their colours in enemy territory.”

“You’d think they’d learn to stop sending spies,” Meathir said, his lips curling in a cynical smile. “What happened to keeping this battle civil?”

“This one’s a freelancer,” Damita said. “Came out on his own. He must have thought he could get a quick promotion by getting across the river and back alive.”

“He’s a very long way across the river,” Meathir said, with something that might have been respect in his voice. He lifted the young spy’s head and looked into the sightless eyes. “You have to admire them, in a way. If this war were being fought on strength of ideals we’d have been bones on the battlefield long ago.” He let the head fall back onto the dead shoulder. “To come all this way with nothing but blind faith in an ideal and a hope to protect you…”

“And you know perfectly well that that’s nothing but rhetoric, Meathir,” Damita said brusquely. “After all, what is he now?”

“What is he now?” Meathir asked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Why, he’s young, brave, foolish,” – he folded the scrap of fabric with the eagle insignia and put it into the dead man’s open mouth – “and ultimately dead. Should we leave him here?”

“He seems comfortable.”

Meathir gave Damita a sidelong glance. “You know, birds mark their territory by building nests in trees; cats mark their territories by making scratches on trees, and dogs mark their territories by pissing on trees. And now here you are, marking your territory by pinning bodies to trees. I think I like your method.”

“It doesn’t rely on a full bladder.”

Meathir laughed his agreement and took Damita’s arm. The two of them walked together into the woods, following a narrow path that was partially hidden by dense bracken. The path meandered up a shallow incline, which grew steeper and became a sharp bank. Meathir took the bank at a run, Damita a few steps behind him, and they emerged at the top into yet another clearing, this one bigger than either of the first two. Two enormous pine trees towered over the far end of it, and between them was stretched a banner with a black wolf’s head painted on it.

“We scared anything edible out of this clearing months ago, Meathir,” Damita said, looking up at the wolf’s head banner. “Why are we here?”

“I ran into Bron earlier this morning,” Meathir said, striding across the clearing to a tent at the base of one of the oaks. Damita followed him; Meathir ducked under the tent flap and proceeded to sweep everything off the low wooden table inside. He put a pile of papers and a map into a hemp bag.

“What did Bron have to say?” Damita asked, picking up a roughly-bound book and handing it to him. “Or did you frighten him so badly he couldn’t speak?”

“We march for the river tomorrow,” Meathir said. “We’re finally…”

“…going south for the winter,” Damita finished for him. Meathir looked up at her. Their eyes met, Damita’s hazel irises reflected in Meathir’s black ones.

“Can you believe it?” Meathir said softly. “This war’s been going on more than twice as long as either of us has been alive. And now, in our lifetimes, we get to finish it.”

“Oh, I can believe it well enough,” Damita said, taking a spear from where it lay, discarded, in a corner of the tent. She hefted it in her hand for a moment. “You need to weight the end of this, Meathir,” she said. Meathir took it from her and tied the hemp bag to the end. “Better?” he asked. Damita curled her lip. Meather took the spear from her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you want to finish this war?”

Damita shrugged his hand off and ducked out of the tent. “What I want,” she said, not looking at Meathir as he followed her, “just because I’m curious, is to find out who’s replaced Rhast as commander. Then, just for old times’ sake, I’d like to kill him. After that, because I’ve never seen it, I’d like to advance to the capital city. If there are red soldiers between me and the capital city I’d quite like to kill them too. Then I want to find the palace, storm the throne room, drag the king out to the nearest woods and pin him to a tree with a spear. I want all the same things that you do, Meathir.” She turned to face him. “But do you really think that will end the war? After more than seventy years, do you really think we’re the ones to finish it?”

Meathir slipped an arm around her waist and looked up at the wolf’s head banner stretched between the two great pines. “Maybe,” he said.

They stood like that for a moment, Meathir enjoying the warmth of the sun on his back and the warmth of Damita’s body on his chest. Finally Damita twisted around to look at him. “Meathir?” she said.

“Yes?” he answered absently.

“Let’s kill some breakfast before I’m hungry enough to eat you.”

They caught and roasted a pair of rabbits; Meathir killed one with his throwing knife and Damita trapped another with her bare hands. Both were scrawny creatures without much meat on them, but there were mushrooms growing at the feet of some of the bigger pines, which were just enough to make the meal taste like breakfast. They ate in the clearing by the tent they shared, where Meathir had startled Bron earlier that morning. As the sun climbed towards midday, Damita noticed people coming and going at the edge of the clearing, never quite entering the bare circle but always just hidden in the dense woodland at the borders.

“They’ll have heard from Bron,” Meathir said as he studied the map from the hemp sack, as though reading her mind. “I’ll call them in when I’ve finished with this…”
Damita leaned over his shoulder, peering at the map. “The capital city? Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I’m not,” Meathir said. “I’m just trying to remind myself that the river isn’t the final objective.”

“It will be if we don’t focus on winning it,” Damita retorted. “Call them in now. They’re making me nervous.”

Meathir gave Damita a look of utter disbelief, but he shrugged his assent. He stood up from his log, catching the eye of a figure in the middle of darting between two trees. The pale-faced woman froze, and Meathir nodded at her to indicate she should come into the clearing.

Modus procrastinandi: baking. Two pumpkin pies...mmm...

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 10:02:02 GMT

In other news, my fingers are still yellow.