If I knew you were coming...

Readers of blog, people everywhere, take note of this day. It is the 26th February 2010. Tell your children. Tell your children's children. Today is the day that Rebecca Lelli made a cake that DID NOT taste like a poo poo platter. I'm so proud I could cry, I feel like I have given birth to this cake. I don't want to eat it; I want to freeze it in time to remind myself that I am not useless. The beauty of this cake is that it is the by-product of a ginger pudding I am currently steaming away in my slow cooker. I had too much mixture so whacked it in the oven and ta da! It is perfection. Gingery, sugary perfection.
This may seem like I am overreacting but I do not have a good track record with cakes, desserts or biscuits, mainly because I hate following recipes, so if it looks boring i always feel inclined to throw a Snickers into the biscuit recipe or marshmallows into fairy cakes. It's taken me a while to realise that things with caramel and sugar in melt in the oven and when out, solidify into toffee...

So you see why this day is momentous to me? Let us have a sing song in light of this celebration!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=honSSKeXME8

Thug Lovin'

The inevitable happened yesterday. My housemate was mugged walking back from the bus stop. It’s on a main road and only two roads away from our house but it happened. He's not a huge guy and wears glasses and a beanie hat so it could be suggested that he's an easy target. Either way, I'm bloody fuming. Three black guys punched him over the head knocking him to the floor and proceeded to punch and kick him whilst trying to get into his pockets. My housemate explained he didn't know how he got the strength to stand up and he sprinted away leaving them behind. He got away without them taking anything but has bruises and cuts on his face, hands and knee. I hear about people being attacked rather a lot but I assumed (naively) that if some one wants to mug you, they'll ask politely for you to hand over your wallet and then if you refuse, then kick the shit out of you. But this seemed like an unfair attack using violence and three big guys who so obviously unfairly outnumbered their prey.
I’m disappointed. I'm always sticking up for this area when people say what a shit-hole it is and defend the fact that our house of students live as the minority among other cultures. I love that we can buy unusual vegetables and spices at our corner shop. But when something like this happens I feel let down, like everyone is right. Maybe I do live in a shit-hole, but 90% of the time I like it but the longer I live here the more I yearn to be back in my comfort zone where I feel safe. We don't belong here and the locals know it. They see us as rich students invading their territory when we are anything but rich and just want to integrate. It's given me a greater understanding of why racism and segregation still exists in our country but I am no more racist or scared than when I moved here a year and a half ago. I just understand people that I wouldn’t have come into contact with in my lifetime. It's like everyone is always on the defence 24/7 and you can cut tension with a rusted spoon. I have Asian friends, Black friends, Chinese and Welsh. These experiences don't change my opinions of the wider groups of people at all; it just tilts my perspective on the area. It may be affected by other things such as it being a poor, neglected area as well which must be considered. Whatever it is I'm sick of it, I don't understand why Birmingham is split into separate areas of ethnicity. They all live miles apart. But surely this aids the segregation and misunderstandings of each other’s culture? I think what would solve this is a mass Wife Swap so people know that there is nothing to fear, and that every family just wants to get on and live their lives. I believe this would be easier and more harmonious if people mixed it up a little.

Goodness gracious

I am still astounded at the level of immaturity and close-mindedness at university. I don’t know what I was expecting as I embarked upon my mini adventure of leaving home and taking my brain to be fed through a straw at an educational establishment in Birmingham, but I really didn’t expect to meet so many closed characters. I wanted to meet my life long friends here; I’ve read how people meet their future partners for life at university and really make a stand for themselves and define their reasons for being on this planet whilst being surrounded by like minded people. The only box I think I’ve ticked is the partner one so far which don’t get me wrong, is fabulous and life changing in itself, but it doesn’t distract me enough from the strangeness of fellow course mates and old friends from my first year. They’re just weird. Now I’ve got used the idea that I’m not Little Miss Academic and wont come out of university smelling of roses with a 1st class honours but that is not why I went. I went for the experience and to better myself as a person and as a writer after taking a year out not knowing what on earth to do with myself. I think I’m succeeding; it’s just sometimes a random person says something annoying enough for me to take the eye off of my proverbial ball. So imagine my relief when today, my Life Writing tutor said these words which made me inhale with joy resulting with me choking a little on my own saliva: “I don’t care about your degree, I care about helping you to become a writer.” Music to my little confused ears! I was under the impression that when I enrolled for the English and Creative Writing JOINT honours degree that there would be a lot of creativity, and god forbid, writing involved and so far I’ve had to hold only every withering straw of writing opportunity as it came and went.
It was just so lovely to hear those words as I thought that I was the mad one for thinking that the grade of degree you get is NOT the be all and end all of your human existence. It does not define you. I know this, and I’ve always known this and hearing it today just made me remember why I came to University. Not to compete with pretentious Austen wannabes or argue the toss over “philosophical” non-existent debates but I’m here for me. It might sound cliché but it’s true. And now at least I know that at least one person in that god damn Baker Building is on my side!

Hear all about it!

Browsing the BBC news I came across this story about a bunch of school laptops which are given to the children to take home. They were apparently invading kid’s privacy and catching them in “compromising” or embarrassing positions. They included in this the state of dress and undress... Anyone else see a really poor attempt at covering up a paedophile-ring here or is it just me? Why on EARTH would a school install webcams to track stolen laptops when all you need is a chip, and secondly they never explained as to why someone had switched the cameras on and had been viewing footage of the children inside their homes. I bet whoever let that slip is in for a right bollocking. Probably literally. In the face.

View this story at http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/8523807.stm and make of it what you will.

bath bombs & quick fixes

Marian Keyes reckons that there are three types of women : Shoe women, bath products women and nice underwear women. I am definately a bath-product-make-up-creams-lotions-and-potions-fanatic. Its been an ongoing obsession from an early age. Instead of playing outside I wanted to paint my tiny stubby nails with pink glittery laquer. This continued onto a rather disasterous stint with hair dye resulting in accidental gingerness and also a phase of turquoise. As I realised that all this bodily tweaking made me look a bit of a... well twat, I investigated improving myself not by painting myself with war-colours but by using "natural remedies" and pouring sniffly smelly creams all over me at every oppertunity. I think I half convinced myself that I saw a difference and I really believed in the the products. I would read reviews and knew exactly which extracts cured what complaint. I still cannot live without my Carmex lipbalm and I phisically panic if I think I've lost it. The trouble is that my lips have become so used to having this balm slavered on every hour that without it, they chap instantly as in a rebellion against my insensitive forgetfulness.

It was my stint working for a make-up brand at a department store that turned me into the more level headed person I am today. I realised what a bloody con it was and that I thought that the old mingers I'd given make-overs to didn't need the layers of slap and that growing old gracefully counts for a lot. I enjoyed the job and working with people to boost their self esteem was fab but in reality I felt like a fraud. I was given a script to read from; they had to clutch at straws to sell their products because they didn't really hold any true benefits and I had to pretend every day that people looked great when they didn't. I tried being honest (in the nicest way) but it got me into trouble when I said an older lady with great skin didnt need the foundation, even at her age. I was punished for being honest... gah! So a little peek at the inside of the cosmetics buisness put me right off. I still wear make-up but I can see through the glittering advertising campaigns and celeb-endorsed products and probably save myself a bucket load!

I then became obsessed with Lush. I spent a bloody fortune at that place (the money I'd saved from overcoming my make-up addiction) and I knew that really, I couldnt see or feel a difference with the products in a longterm kinda way but the smell was just addictive! I cannot walk past without buying a scrub or a body-butter even though I've already got a bathroom full of the stuff! It is fab but I'm not so keen on all of the tree-hugging emotional blackmail I endure from the staff and customers in particular. I am all for not testing products on animals and I really believe that there is no excuse for doing so, but to be harsh there are bigger things to wet your pants over.

I've learnt alot and with my 10 years of experince in this field I feel that there cannot possibley be anything I don't know about powdering's one self. I am almost ashamed, especially as I'm currently taking a feminism class and I feel like I cant express my views of girly things for fear of being chastised! Well I got over it pretty quickly as I realised what a load of fanny feminsim is...

So, if you need advice on your uncontrollable hair, spotty nose or cellulitely thighs, I can tell you the truth - buy all of these lovely smelling products because they genuinely DO make you feel better about yourself. But, in the long run its exactly what your mother said which unfortunately speaks volumes of truth. "More excersise and less stuffing one's face". It's simple maths but easier said than done! So in the meantime, head down to Smellysville, grab yourself some treats and scrub yourself silly because you deserve it!

Sneaking and a peeking

I like to consider myself rather good at sneaking and peeking at the best of times. And so with my ears wide open I decided to listen to to the native tribes of Perry Barr in all their glory at the watering hole that is ONE STOP SHOPPING CENTRE. With treasures to be found on every corner it was bound to get the locals very excited indeed. With the recent opening of the alcoholic's favourite Weatherspoons making an appearance the thrills and giddiness could be heard a mile away. One couple however were not partaking in this flourish of double-whisky-at-11am-and-Poundstretcher-sale-delerium. They were browsing in Holland and Barratt. Now, this initially does not seem out of the ordinary but, for this breed of human their actions were most out of character. No, they had no fallen into the vortex of the health food shop by accident and missed the turning for Burger King, they were walking with gusto up and down the dried fruit and health food isle looking with a hungry tear in their eye at the number of calories in each packet of dried apricots and Agogo berries. The male of the pack was obviously disinterested as the female called out each number in her mind-numbing Birmingham accent. "Three hundred and forty five.... Three hundred and eighty nine...." and so on. The males eyes yearned for a Burger King value meal, he could taste it wafting in through the doors carried by the February breeze. But, she persisted. It was obvious that all of these bags of exotic berries and nuts contained more calories that a king size Mars Bar and when her partner huffed his last puff of exhaustion she decided on the bag of prunes. "They might have more calories than my multi pack of Quavers but at least they'll be coming out as quick as they're going in!" She pronounced with a tone of pride at how clever she had been to spot this excellent method of weight loss.

I am certain to see her around again and I will report to you if any inches have been lost.

weird things...

So, the journey on my way down to Brighton on the train was something I was dreading on Wednesday because I always have altercations with idiots and weirdos. The weird thing I'm going to tell you is a tale of the unexpected. I always prepare to be shoved at least ten times during my three hour journey, especially on the tube. I also expect to breathe in someone else's bodily gases at least twice during my trip. And most of all I know I will be treated as invisible at every opportunity.
This is the weird part... none of the above happened to me this time. In fact the very opposite. My fellow passengers smelt sweet, there was not one elbow dug into my ribs as I struggled to pull my ridiculously large red suitcase aboard the train. I would have been happy enough at just escaping these usual toils of Virgin Trains but what shocked me the most and caused me to stutter when asked is when some very nice strong people offered and helped me with my case and lifted it into the case shelves for me! I for one was astounded. I have never experienced this kindness, especially in LONDON of all places. Where no one dares to make eye contact or acknowledge any other human being in their path. I quickly grew confident and was chit chatting to people left, right and centre. This day of human kindness and general friendliness has reinstated my belief that people are not all arseholes and that even Londeners have hearts. May whatever is in the water continue to flow through the veins of our public!

Brits

OH. MY. GOD.

It is still unknown to me as to why me and my housemate Gen just spent two hours of our precious lives watching this years Brit awards. Among the shit miming, shit sound quality and even shitter selection of people introducing the acts which to be honest gets everyones goat... WHAT THE FRICK was geri sodding-arsed Halliwell doing on my screen? she was so BLATANTLY trying to get attention by saying "outrageous" comments like not including Mel C in her list of thank yous and by saying that she wished GaGa had played a song she knew etc etc . Gosh is she not SO CONTRAVERSIAL??! Aside from the fact that no one gives a flying toss about the "feud" with the Spice Girls ten years ago and who fell out with whom but what really nags me is that Geri thought it appropiate to give her opinion on music! Granted... SHIT music but music all the same. Now, I am into my pop and rnb more than any other genre (along with soul) but even I thought this evening's line up was terrible and I have NO values when it comes to music.

BUT Geri was BLATANTLY trying to get attention. It was embarrassing because it was so obvious that Fern Cotton didnt know how to react to her "mad" comment so she just went.. "errr yeah so.. JLS what do you think about...." and tried to keep the conversation light. God Geri is such a bitch. What a trouble-making skinny-yoga-bumming-ginger-bitch. Dont even get me started on Jonathon Ross...

tit bit

Black cloak of pitch, all colours enveloped.
Rhythmic breath under the spell of midnight.
A scene of silence, film undeveloped.
Pinpricks in oblivion blinking bright.

Suffocating blanket of arguments
unresolved. Shadows dance to the moon's song.
Stories of tomorrow to ears untold.
Trees whisper secrets of days that are gone.

Inevitable day breaks through Her glow,
The pallet is present, it paints a new past.
Nature's song lifts the everlasting cloak,
Awaiting His spell of night to be cast.

to me to you...

Okay so last night DID NOT go to plan. My fabulous mother drove us 60 miles to see this bloody James Cordan show being filmed only to be told that five mins before we'd shown up that the studio had reached it's maximum capacity. She was NOT happy. I wasnt either, I'd curled her hair and everything for the occasion!
There was a massive queue of people behind us as well just waiting to poke the small spotty boy who'd been appointed to tell everyone the bad news right in the eye balls. I felt quite sorry for him but then my anger took over and I forgot all about it. So we drove all the way home only stopping for an overpriced hot chocolate at the service station which rivalled the Bull Ring with its spangly, glassy, white paraphanalia. It was dead posh so I treated myself to a KFC snackbox. and snack it was. I dont think 5 pieces of popcorn chicken and a handfull of chips constitutes a "snack" but then I am rather hoggy. Oink. So that's the end of that story. No rubbing shoulders with celebs or nothing. Never liked the tubby prick anyways :)

Been reading that feminist lady's poetry. She aint half bad! I like this image in particular: "The sky paints itself onto the sea." That's cool right? I think so!

I will have to be quick lots to do and this glass of Rose is just asking me to inhale it. Getting drunk and blogging is NEVER a good idea so I wish you all a delightful evening of lurrrrve!

MWAH!

xxx


Bit of creativity to end the night. Please don't be depressed I'm just sharing random bits and bobs I've written recently. This one is a bit older and quite personal, it was written in the moment but I will annoy you with it anyways :) thank you and goodnight!



Cactus tears, inescapable heat.
Gory hurt, daring nausia digs.
Foggy damp confusion smothers us,
We breathe it in, our lungs are heavy.

Twenty four hour years slump past.
They gorge on our pain.
Healing time? Unpicking stitches.
Your three rocks are now sand.

Blown away by your breeze of rejection.

ebay and assholes

Well hello!
You've caught me a bad time. I have just received news that I am expecting the boots I sold on Ebay returned to me because the buyer wasn't happy with them. He got a pair of 90 quid boots for 50 quid for gods sake what is his problem?! Im annoyed as these boots were the bain of my life for months as a tried breaking them in and they insisted on rubbing my left heel like sandpaper and so I passed them on to a new home. Poor boots are coming back like an unwanted child from a foster family. Im sad. Anywho enough of that Jason9987 asshole for now.

Im currently sat at home at me mother's place in Baaaanbury. I've managed to avoid the town centre so far apart from picking my little (18 year old) sister up from work. That was an adventure in itself trying to dodge idiots in their Rage Rovers and souped up Clios. Knob heads. For someone so hot headed I think Ive done well not to phisically hurt someone in a car-anger situation yet. Mind you I was driving my mum's orange Matiz so the joke was on me.

I saw a hilarious women as I was waiting outside Crofts pet shop for Katie ('little' sis). I swear to God she had more roots than dyed hair. She looked like an aneven, back-to-front badger. It was a disgrace. Hair dye only costs about 3 quid if youre scrimping but it gets worse. HER ROOTS WERE GREY. And judging buy the state of her four obese children I can only assume she was going to the pet store to get their tea. Bloody animals.

It's nice to be back home for two nights just to chill out and eat as much free food as I can in one sitting. Also in relation to writing my autobiography it is helpful to be back in the place I grew up in. It jogs a few memories. We've moved house alot in the past and I'm pretty sure in my little life-span ive lived at nine different houses. So yep, didn't stay put for anymore than 2 or three years really. I thought this was normal but apparently not! I remember one boy at primary school calling my a Gyppo because we moved house alot. So i explained that we moved HOUSE and not TRAILERS but he still didnt get it the little git. We always stayed in the Oxfordshire area but constantly moved about. Ive decided that this could be a good theme for my autobigrpahy about tracking how things in the family changed from house to house because there has been some odd ones. Especilly one right out in the sticks. It was a real 'The Hills Have Eyes' moment.
I quite like Banbury(to scrutinise), it's a strange place, there is a real divide between the villagers (who are usually quite well off) and drive their Rage Rovers and have children called Toby and Jessica and then in the town live the the strange bods such as Badger Lady I previously described and the children who are already reproducing and having more children. I'm sure the town is getting worse and I'm not sure who I despise more (although my knob detector is pointing towards the posh
idiots).

Of course youve got the regular people in the middle but they kind of get forgotten about amongst the sea of jeremy kyle victims and dickheads in jodhpurs. (god i hate jodhpurs).

ANYWAY being back here is okay. as long as I stay within the walls of my little sane(ish) family. Off to see James Cordan's new quiz show being filmed tonight somewhere in Buckinghamshire. Hopefully we will make it there in time to get a seat as the ticket says its a 'first come first serve' kinda ticket. What kind of ticket it THAT? So i'll let you know how that goes!

Back to bruuuum tommorrow!

Ta for now rantees.

public transport and cellulite busting soap.

I had a nice little trip into town today and had a rather warming bowl of mushroom soup in a tiddley pub by the c-anal today. Its such a cute little place that I forget where I am (and in Birmingham thats rather nice). There is always a fabulous mixed bag of people in there and i cant help but listen in on their converstations which may seem like im being rude but thankfully my boyfriend does the same thing so we probably spend more time listening in than actually talking to eachother! I joke. I'm sure I spotted a reformed drug addict talking about her past to a guy who looked far to straight-laced to be her boyfriend. She was gabbling like a mental goose. I do wonder how these people meet.

On my way home I spotted my favouritist shopping haunt in the Pallasades. Amongst Poundland and Bodycare, there is a little gem hidden round the corner. Its a stall of about 4 rickety wallpapering tables selling books for £1... £1!!!! That to me is heaven and madness rolled into one delicious pie of spending. It only pops up occasionally and is so random i love it. There is everything from kids books to travel journals, karma sutra and fiction. I always feel the need to buy one of everything just because its a quid but eventuallly control myself and am reminded of what i would realistically read. So, I put down all of the classics and books on travelling to Peru and settle on just two. A book of Marge Piercy's poetry and a guide to writing chick-lit which is something I am dead into and plan to make myself a billionaire while I'm still young enough to enjoy it. Well.. one can wish. I have a sneaky suspicion that its not the quality of your writing but "who you know" that determines whether you are published or not in the realms of chicklitre. I'll give it a bashing anyway :)
Im sure I'll have a flick through old Marge's poems at some point too to broaden my knowledge of these feminisms I may have previously mentioned...

My last point today is as follows. Dont you hate it when you sit next to someone on the bus and they smell like soup? Because I dont know about you but it really pisses me off. It doesnt sound that bad, and i am partial to a bowl of hot broth in the winter months but i really, really do not want to be sat next to an old lady smelling like that. It just turns my stomach. I put up with it though because I never pluck up the courage to move because its just too obvious in those situation and so I sat through it starving myself of oxygen as was humanly possible.

All in all i think a very good day, now to get down to some... work i think its called?

ta for now.

Gladiators

Okay, so whilst trying to get my research done for my feminism critique I decided to pop on a bit of TV and much to my delight stumbled upon Gladiators! (the old school 90s one not the crappy new version). It's not that I enjoy the sight of men's unnaturally bulging thighs in unforgiving spandex outfits (although its nice to see someone with bigger thighs than me) but I love the fun family nature of the show. It seemed so innocent when me, my little sis and parents all squished together on a Saturday night to watch the competition unfold. I always felt excited and loved that travellator! There is a similar contraption at One Stop my local shopping centre but I'm not sure running up it in a latex two-piece is acceptable in Perry Barr.... but judging by the attire some females favour; you never know.
Annnnywho. Whilst writing little notes on feminists and their "isms" I started to wonder about my own stance on feminism. If im honest they've always annoyed me. I kind of think "what more could you possibley want in this world??" (apart from the obvious like equal pay which i think anyone who isnt a moron would agree with)it just seems nowadays like unneccessary whinging and attenion seeking from ugly lesbians who were too hideous to attract a male and so their bitterness sent them on a quest to cause havoc to make men look like pigs at every oppertunity. I never understood this as someone with a relatively normal father figure and as someone who was respected as a female (or so i believe). As i delved (or is it dolved... it sounds better) into the fems a bit more I realised its deeper than my black and white analogy but in all honesty its just too old and boring to care about right now. I feel like I can do anything and I am not restrained at all by my gender. "But thats what society has conditioned you think" they would argue. Then my brain scrambles even more and I get comepletely confused.
My point is that I was wondering if a show like Gladiators would have suceeded now in the way it did back in the 90s or if there would be a massive uproar. As a female I didnt see the women as objectified because it was just a bit of fun to me. And i like to think that it would be the case now. The more women moan, the more men can say that we moan. Self fullfilling prophecy anyone??

Oh god, I really DIDNT mean to rant about feminism. How dull.
This blog at the moment is meant to be a kind of journal for my life writing class for my autobiography and I'd rather like to use the memory of my father's "obsession" with Jet and Lightening within my autobiogrpahy.
I think its quite a nice little image and I like to think that as a female (Aged 9) that I took it in jest and that it didnt make me think that all women who have muscular thighs and wear a sliver of latex are attractive and that the show reflected reality in any way.

Ive gone on far too long and if you're not sure why then join the club because neither am I. Be aware that I change my opinions every day and tomorrow you could well read a blog started with "So... have you ever noticed how all men are bastards...?" I dont think its fickle or flakey. I just cannot for the life of me decide what I think about anything. It took me half an hour to decide on my chicken and oyster sauce dish I'm currently waiting to be delievered to my front door. So that's it for now until tomorrow. I wonder what memories I will dredge up for you.... ooooh I know, the wait is going to kill you!

Ta for now rantees. xx

memories

So, today after an inspiring chitty chat, I have found a surge of confidence I havn't felt before. And so there will be many more of these bloggings now because I'm on a roll! (egg and bacon haha).
Today the excercises on accessing memory set me going and now I cant stop thinking about my own childhood which caused me to trip up several times on my walk home from uni to the fabulous suburb of Handsworth. This may not seem like a huge deal but tripping up in Handsworth can be life threatening if you fall on a used condom or a nice glob of fresh spit glinting in the spring sunshine.
It got me thinking about other people too. I've always been interested in other people's stories and lives and often like to make their biographies up in my head. The walk home certainly lets me use my imagination to the point where the weird thoughts might spill over out of my ears onto the grubby pavement. There are so many queer folk around here. Not queer as in gay because quite frankly to look homosexual around here just wouldnt earn you any brownie points at all. No, i mean queer as in bizare, freaky and strange.
Sometimes I think its safer to imagine their backgrounds than to actually find out the truth because I suspect that I probably wouldnt sleep for a week after knowing. For example, 3 doors down is who I like to call "Running Man" although its not so much of a run, as a quick limp. He "runs" everwhere with a Tescos plastic bag and I dont know whats in it (although addmittedly ive tried to sneek a look as he's ambled past) but to no avail. He is a mystery.

Before I find out about these funny people I live amongst I need to find out about myself. And that involves ALOT of self indulgant sitting and thinking. About ME! I'm sure I'll survive...

Here is wot I writ today. A snippet of a memory from my first childhood home. Look out for more self analysis and strange stories from my neighbourhood sooooon...


Honeysuckle & Tulips

With bright daffodills and the sweetest honeysuckle; round the back of my first house was my favourite place. It seemed always to be sunny, but looking back this was probably because of the fortunate postioning of the garden and the seemingly never-ending tulips in all colours.
When the sun hit the herb corner the scent of mint mingled with the flowers' nectar and I loved it. Round the back next to the honeysuckle was the door we never used. It was a door of frosted diamond panneling. It reminded me of pretty jewells when the sun bounced off it. You could open up the frosted door into a tiny space before the main door into the house.The smell of damp, bare concrete was so different to the sweetness of the garden.
The inside door was always locked but I would persist and try opening it every time i ventured inside my secret little place. On this particular day instead of the usual clunk of the cold metal handle which signalled my unwanted intrusion, my small chubby hand easilly pulled the handle down into a smooth click and it opened.
I didnt recognise my own house. I'd never seen it this way before. Instead of the bright yellow kitchen with various retro Bisto posters and crumbs, deep blue stairs loomed up at me. I could smell my dog Plug which was reassuring and soon his big black wet nose came to investigate who had opened the back door. I approached the stairs and opened the cool white metal stairgate and Plug and I began to ascend the dark steps into our new, frightening home at the top. The daylight shone through the small window at the top with the fairy dust. It was too high for me to reach and look out of. I went to check on my little toddler sister, sleeping in her tiny room at the end of the landing. She'd obviously heard me and Plug however, because as i tired to sneak onto the prickley green carpet (like the outside of a coconut)she was already up and bouncing to greet us with her mouth scattered with wood chippings and flakes of white emulsion paint from where she'd been chewing her cot.


END.