23 posts tagged “qotd”

What did you do for fun when you were a kid? How is it different from what you see kids doing now?
Submitted by jaklumen.

We were a right bunch of lunatics, the four of us. I don't say that in an infuriating "I'm mad, me!" way (usually uttered in a deadpan monotone by the least exciting and "mad" person in the room). I mean we seriously were lunatics.

Picture the scene: a typical morning circa 1988. Big brother JoeFish (9) is careering down the steep, stone back steps on his bike, scaling walls topped with barbed wire, throwing rocks at his own head, or otherwise hell bent on his own self-destruction. Little sis A (4) is marching determinedly around and around and around the parameters of the breakfast table, having refused to sit still for longer than ten seconds or eat anything on her plate, the birds nest of bed hair at the back of her head bigger than her head itself. Helen (barely toddling) hovers like a ethereal little pea in her green romper on the outskirts of the scene, swaying on fat legs. In her head she's fully engaged with what's going on around her; in reality she's kind of smiling vaguely at nothing. And where am I (aged 8)? Crouched underneath the fuschia bush in the front garden, writing notes on passers-by.

A little girl who lives on our road would fit right in with this bunch of nutters. She's a talker- a pathological, unstoppable, brain-melting talker. She lurks around on her bike waiting for adults to pass by, upon she which she forces the adult into a lengthy conversation, informs them that she's been spying on them, or just kind of prattles until the adult makes lame excuses and is followed by the little girl right up to their front door- not the front gate, the front door. One has to be careful when closing the door, in case little limbs have already managed to find their way in. Once when I walked past she remarked nonchalantly as she lolled on her bike: "that boy you live with is in your living room, painting. I've been watching him through the window. He was painting yesterday too", and then cycled off. 

Personally I don't think much has changed. Children are completely, brilliantly bonkers. And quite right too.

What fictional character do you relate to most and why?

When such subjects are being discussed, the temptation is always to flaunt one's knowledge (or lack thereof) of The Great Works. "Ah yes, I most relate to x from War and Peace" (have never read it) or, "oh, I do relate so to Heathcliffe" (only via Kate Bush). When the truth is, for me, the most relatable characters are not in this canon of "classics".

My first English Literature seminar at university was a case in point. Our tutor asked us what our favourite book was. As my colleagues (compatriots? What is the term for a group of students? A gaggle? A slump?) nodded seriously and proclaimed that their favourite work was Jane Eyre or Catcher in the Rye or similar, I didn't think before blurting out "Bridget Jones' Diary".

Oh the tumbleweed.

Thus I set a precedent for an unbroken record of always, always, saying something embarassing in meetings. But it was true: my favourite novel was and is Bridget Jones' Diary. And, much as I shake my head in disbelief as I now approach actual Bridget age, as an 18-year-old I totally identified with BJ (she would be horrified, and withering, at the thought). Now I'm more au fait with the biological clock (tick tick tick), the wine-fuelled evenings, the career dilemmas and such. And perhaps I'm in denial about my innate Bridget-hood, now that it's a reality. But I'm leaning back towards my first literary role model: Jo from Little Women.

I think any young girl growing up with books around her can relate to Little Women. Were you dutiful Meg, who was kind of boring but ticked all of life's boxes; sad Beth, the tender flower in all of us; or pretty, feisty Amy? Well, I've never been the Amy, much as I would love to be blonde-ringleted and princess-like. No, Jo is who I most relate to. Kind of boofus, creative and with dreams that even she can't quite grasp. And she grew up to be a writer. A writer.

Maybe some day.

What's your favorite thing about being sick?

This is not a funny question for me today.

I haven't written a post on this blog for simply ages (did you notice?), and thought I would ease myself back in with a Question Of The Day. Covering more than a month of absence would an excruciatingly long post make. Much better to be targeted. Imagine my horror when I saw said question. For I am sick! And there is nothing favourite (favoUrite, thank you, Americans) about it! Surely it should read "what's your favourite thing about pretending to be sick?" or "what's your favourite thing about convincing yourself you are sick and taking a glorious day off when you're actually fine?"

I'll tell you what are not my favourite things (plural) about being sick.

Stepping out of a horse and carriage ride in Central Park (didn't quite meet my Sex and the City-fuelled dreams, if the truth be known*), nearly keeling over and wondering why, given the ride was so slow we almost rolled backwards into the Apple Store across the road, do I feel so dizzy? That is not my favourite thing about being (becoming) sick.

Spending the last afternoon of my holiday in New York in bed, with a hoody on over my pyjamas, my head under the covers and my feet bound in a pashmina, trying to beat the freezing shaky-shakes and wondering whether it was such a good idea not to wear a jumper when freezing to death on the Brooklyn Bridge that morning, is not my favourite thing about being sick.

Nor is taking half an hour to wobble ten blocks or so, as if I'd been bedbound for a decade and forgotten how to walk, to a lovely diner, only to eat two spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup and drink a hot toddy with my hands over my ears to muffle the hideous sound of people- imagine this, on a saturday night- talking and laughing, in an attempt at a celebratory last-night-of-trip meal. I can't imagine that this was my boyfriend's favourite thing about it either, as he manfully tried to haz cheezburger and enjoy a beer as I croaked pitifully "I can't, I can't manage another spoonful, arrrr, why is everyone talking so loudly, arrrr, a taxi just drove past the window and blinded me with its devil headlights, ohhh, I can't drink this hot toddy I will get a hangover on top of all the toooortuuure".

Sitting on a plane for twelve hundred hours with my throat filled with shards of glass and my head stuck between some railings (it felt like), this is not my favourite thing;  only managing  a quarter of the obligatory first-night-home takeaway, that is not my favourite thing; phoning into work to announce that after my seven days of leave, I'm now going to take a sick day, thank you very much; knowing that there are snacks in the house and not feeling like eating them; knowing that Come Dine With Me is on and not feeling like watching it; being in my cosy living room instead of toiling underneath a gigantic air con pipe, and feeling altogether meh about it. All of these things are not favourites of mine.

Being an ungrateful cow who should be writing about the fabulous holiday she just spent in New York last week- which right up until the last hours of the last day, was brilliant- instead of whining about her minor viral throat infection. Apparently that's my favourite thing right now.

No wait.

Complaining!

That's my favourite thing about being sick.

*The Magnolia Bakery, on the other hand, did meet my SATC dreams. A collection of photographs of me with my greedy snout buried in various cupcakes reveal that indeed, I have never been happier than when at the Magnolia bakery, or specifically, immediately afterwards once the box of cakes was open.

How old were you when you had your very first boyfriend/girlfriend? Do you still know them now? 
Submitted by KIM. 

Throughout high school I had the misfortune of having
a) A brace (I loved it so much, I got another one this year)
b) Two rather eyecatching friends as my main school sidekicks. Well, one was an eyecatching friend, the other was an eyecatching "friend". But still. Quite the teen heart-throbs.
c) An eye for books and not so much for the parties.

Also, and put your violins away, because I am so over it, but I really wasn't that much of a looker. Somewhere along the line, I grew a face that doesn't frighten. And I'm sure my mum and old friends will admonish me for saying it. But seriously, a man once shouted at me on the street: "don't worry, you might turn into a swan one day!". It scarred me for life, or least until I grew up and realised what an arse he must have been, and surely no oil painting himself. These days, I'm not model material, but I sport a dashing devil-may-care attitude to face-related neuroses, a mighty big fringe which covers all manner of hairy eyebrows, and (thank heavens, finally), my beloved Betty who has sorted out the one thing I was totally paranoid about, ie, the snaggletooth.

So, boyfriends didn't figure in my life throughout school, or sixth form college. My first year at university was a medley of mind expansion of many kinds, several snogs, and even a few dates (how novel) with a terribly nice muscly man who looked as hard as nails but had a very high-pitched, lisping voice.

As my first year drew to a close, my 19-year-old self wasn't too bothered about not having a boyfriend, not having met anyone yet. I was A-OK with my pals and my parties (I loved the parties by that point). But around March 2000 I started to get a funny feeling. Something in my waters. I just, well, to coin a cliche, I just knew that someone was on the horizon. And I knew who it would be. The friend of a friend, another little clubbing kid with colourful spikes in his hair. I had never met him, but would dive for my friend's mobile when his number flashed up, though I only managed to grab it once or twice. We talked about what kind of fun fur to buy to make furry boots out of. (I'll post pics of that era one of these days. I needn't worry about retaining anonymity because that girl? Unrecognisable). I didn't so much plan to snare him; more, I felt a cosy warm feeling that "we" would just be. Kind of like a loaf of bread baking in my tummy. Is that weird? It's how it felt.

It transpired later that he'd been thinking similar thoughts. He imagined me as chubby and blonde. I was dark-haired and (at the time) as stringy as a bean.

My boy-to-be lived in a nearby city, around an hour's journey away. A visit was planned, for him to come clubbing with all of us. Around a week before he visited, we were chatting around the table, having got bored with seeing how many peas, tangerines or lettuce leaves we could fit into our mouths, or similar (I'll post pics of that too. Except I won't). Somebody asked me, did I mind being single. I remember looking at them as if "well, duh". I told them "not at all", but in my head I thought "because I'm getting a boyfriend next week, silly".

The first time he clapped eyes on me I was standing grumpily outside the pub where I worked, dressed in a man's anorak and ignoring a sweet old man who was collecting money for charity. I jumped in the car and there he was, also wearing an anorak, or a bubble coat, I can't remember. There wasn't a thunderbolt. But we chatted, I did his hair into cybe spikes just so, we went out in a big group and danced to hard house.

We kissed each other, two teenagers with sweaty faces and shiny clothing, sitting on the stairs of the fire escape at the club.

Coming up to seven and a half years later, we're older and fatter (in my case), and our weekend activites have moved on a tad. But my boy-to-be is still my boy. And right now I'm waiting for him to get back from a camping trip so we can have dinner and then tomorrow, head down to London, clad all in purple (again, in my case) to see- eeeek- Prince!

What websites do you visit every day?
Submitted by Chez Michelle.

BBC News
The Guardian
(Put the clever ones first, arf)
Perez Hilton
Go Fug Yourself
(Revealing my true self)

And then several blogs, some of which are:
Secret Agent Josephine
A Girl and a Boy
Girl's Gone Child
Smitten Kitchen (food, hurrah!)

Actually I have whittled down my blog selection quite considerably of late. Although I am traditionally (in as much as anything less than a couple of years old can be traditional) a big lover of blogs, increasingly I find myself huffing "gawd" as I read these days. Many are derivative in their writing style- in fact I recently wrote a whole blog post, just for fun, in the tired "blog style" I witness every day on so many women's blogs- yes, including my own sometimes. But that was just too mean so I deleted the post before publishing. It was funny, though. You mark my words. You laugh at the thought of how witty I might have been. Laugh! Laugh I tell you!
Also a lot of blogs are self-congratulaty in a sort of insiduous, passive-aggressive way, if that makes sense. And I am becoming too snarky, and hence I will stop now.
 
And last but not least, I visit Vox every day, to see what is going down in my 'hood.

In other news, today my boss actually wrote the following sentence in an e-mail to me, and I have to say it's the best sentence I've read for a while, and also so gloriously nonsensical that it could only be said/typed in the media industry:
"Maggots is a go situation".

Plus, a random overheard quote in the corridor at work: "....and so he's building a human heart!"

If you could have three wishes from a genie, what would they be? 
Submitted by tatteredhalo.

This actually happened to a friend of mine the other day. I was meeting him in the pub, and when he walked in, his head was a huge orange.

"Oh my god" I said. "Your head! It's a huge orange!"

My friend sighed. "Um, I know", he replied, witheringly.

"But what happened?", I demanded.

"Well, I was walking down Market St yesterday, and I tripped over something on the floor. When I scrambled back to my feet and looked to see what the offending article was, I saw it was a lamp, but before I could even swear at the damn thing and whoever threw it in my path, I was blinded by a huge puff of pink smoke and-"

"I've guessed", I interrupted. "A genie, yes?"

"Yeah yeah", said my poor friend with the huge orange for a head. "You know the score. Three wishes. Yada yada."

"So what did you wish for?"

"My first wish was that every woman I meet would fall in love with me".

"So that's why I suddenly feel strangely attracted to you today. You sneaky devil"

"Yeah"

"And your second wish?", I asked.

"Oh, I wished that I had a million quid in my wallet, and that whenever it got close to running out, it would magically replenish".

"A bottomless wallet. Clever".

We both took a gulp of our pints and stared at the wall.

"So go on then". I could wait no longer. "What was your third wish?"

"Well it's obvious isn't it?", said my friend. "I wished that my head was a huge orange".

What was your favorite game to play at recess in grade school? 
Submitted by Elisheva Chana.

  Four memories of playtime ("recess"? There's no "recess" in Blighty, old thing. Or "grade school", for that matter).

1. Age four. Outside nursery school, there was a green field, which sloped down from the main path. It felt huge at the time, but now when I go past on my way to a walk on the Meadows, I see that it is barely larger than a generously sized garden. At playtime the whole of my nursery class would gather at the top of the slope, wait til we were all assembled, then charge down the hill whooping and shouting. My friend Ruth (Roofy Poofy) and I would always, for some reason, yell "Supergiiiiirl!" as we did so. In those pre-hysterical days, when kids could run around naked, my nursery school teachers would fill the  paddling pool up in summer, and we would eagerly disrobe and feel the rays on our little bumcheeks. On these occasions, there was much excitement chez Bokker and Roofy Poofy, as we would adapt our little war-cry to: "Supergiiirl, without any clothes on!" as we scampered down the hill.

2. Age five. I went through a phase of "alone time", and as I remember, I didn't really care. I was quite happy living inside my freakishly vivid imagination. Clad in my beige duffle coat, wooden toggles buttoned with difficulty by tiny fingers, I would stalk the edges of the playground, examining plant-life and trees for the effects of "acid rain". I was a Secret Agent, and I knew that the world was about to be destroyed by perilous acid rain, and only I could spot the signs. When the leaves were pointing downwards, it was a sign. When the grass was flat, it was sign. I would bend down to inspect the ground, and when it started to rain, I would pull my beige hood up over my head and breathe the wet-dog smell of the wool, protecting myself from the acid rain, and certain apocalypse, by the power of the duffel.

3. Age six. My first "boyfriend". I didn't manage to get another one until I was 19. And I've still got him now, bringing my grand total to two (such a wench). We were both angels in the nativity play, in baggy old nighties and tinsel in our hair. At playtime- sorry, abcess- sorry, recess- we would keep our costumes on and shuffle around the playground in our nighties, holding hands. He had auburn hair in floppy curtains above his freckled face; I had nits, as I recall. My friend Ruth was the Angel Gabriel, and somehow a game developed in which Ruth (not Poofy- a more sophisticated Ruth) would gather all her angels- apart from Daniel and I- at the corner of the red gravel playground. She would stand on a tree stump so she towered above the other pint-sized angels, and spread her arms, her baggy nightie wings spread majestically over her clan. "Angels away!", she would bellow, and they would scatter and charge towards us. Meanwhile, Daniel and I would clasp hands and run, tripping, stumbling over the bottoms of our gowns, laughing and screaming. I don't know whether they ever caught us. I don't suppose that was the point.

4. Age nine. The most embarassing moment of my life. The most embarassing moment of my life. At breaktime, I was playing an imaginary game in which I was the Queen of Hearts out of Disney's Alice in Wonderland. My job was to order the executions of my fellow classmates, or similar. At this new school (I left the naked school age 7), everything was very proper. Less art, more counting. Less shouting by children, more shouting by teachers. At the end of each breaktime, a teacher would blow a whistle and the playground would fall instantly silent and still. Apart from this time. This time, when the whistle went and the sea of forest-green jumpers ceased seething, and the footballs bounced tinnily to the edge of the playground, I was so engrossed in my imaginary world that the shriek of the whistle didn't pierce my bubble, and I yelled into the silence: "OFF WITH HER HEAD!!!".

Can you imagine? Seriously, just imagine it. Whole reputations (mine) were forged in that moment.

PS Oh mah gah, less than  36 hours until B-Day!

What did you dream about last night?  

Tiny Indian children with monster-faces, who swarmed around me as I ran down the cobbled road which leads to the "meadows" (a local green belt which I have blogged about before). They snapped at my shins with their monster-teeth, and one of them stuck a needle into my back, containing blood and some diseases.

(The scary thing is, this is a recurring dream)

I also dreamed about renting a swanky apartment in Milan which had a gorgeous glass atrium/dining room on the roof. But I forgot to take my family up there until the end of our holiday, at which point I found it filled with teenagers having a food fight, and one of them fell off the roof.

Hi, I'm insane.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

In other news: bloody hell.

I have slept in a different bed each night for the last six nights (outrageous wench that I am). I have dragged my wheely suitcase around like a annoyingly dependent dog or Indian monster-child, from city to city. I have sipped red wine in a hotel bar overlooking a snow-topped Tower Bridge, and laughed at my director falling over on the ice on a (much smaller) bridge in Birmingham, and had whole filming days cancelled due to "severe weather". And by the way, come on Britain, it's a dusting of powdery snow, get a grip, will you... One million children were off school yesterday due to school closures. I mean really? One million children who really had to miss school, did the headteachers make the right decision when they considered that their staff couldn't make it into work? Could they not struggle through the two inches of snow, like all the other essential workers did- police officers, nurses, supermarket employees...? Have they never heard of wellington boots? And what do people do in places like Canada and Russia, where the current "severe weather" we're experiencing would count as a mild spring day?

Anyway, it's all about me you know. So back to me and my madcap adventures...

We have grappled with ethical issues related to our programme and worried about how we're going to get the damn thing filmed in time. I I haven't been home for nearly seven days and whilst I realise that I am priveleged to have a wanky pointless "creative" job where I swan around the country and sip wine overlooking the Tower Bridge, I am also envious of those people who work regular hours and never until midnight, who sleep in their own bed every night and speak to their families and don't have under-eyes bags so pronounced that soon they will surely morph into wheelie-under-eye--bags which I'll have to drag from city to city on my endless television oddysey.

I am spent, and wrung dry, and overdramatic and irritating.

So tonight I'm going to wheel my eye bags home and give my boyfriend a cuddle; wash the crazy week away in a hot bath; revel in the comfortable and familiar sights and textures of our home: our soft leather sofa, our weathered wooden floors, our DVDs and home-made curtains, our kitchen with an actual oven and a fridge, real life not rent-a-room unreality. I'll celebrate the fact that I can open the door with a real live key instead of a swipe card, that my room does not feature a trouser press, that I don't have to search endless draws to find the hairdryer, that shampoo comes in proper big bottles and I don't have to carry a notebook to dinner to plan the following day. 

Hurrah for the weekend, hurrah for playing in the snow, snuggling on the sofa, for writing until words burst from the computer and slip between the floorboards. Hooray and hurrah for home.

What are your resolutions for 2007?

Copious debauchery

Much exploration of new music, and the popping of my festival cherry

Fearless cycling

More money in my savings

Less money heammoraghing endlessly from my promiscuous purse

My novel, completed

The return of my 25 inch waist (much lamented... but I know it's in there somewhere).

Always remembering, but healing a little more

Where do you do your online shopping?

Now then, I'm going to be cynical and delve into the hard-bitten TV journalist side of my nature, at this juncture.

(Before I begin, may I just say that I am  not a hard-bitten TV journalist, it makes me cringe when my colleagues pour forth their never-ending trumpeting about "journalism this, journalism that". I am a mere entertainment monkey, I assure you.)

Wait while I knit my eyebrows into seriousness, narrow my eyes with suspicion, and adopt a questioning gait.

I would also like to pull on the cape of the More Serious Blogger, who might have some kind of mission, aside from entertaining my Mum and three of my friends.

Ahem.

I note that this Question of the Day does not seem to have been submitted by a particular Vox user.

I also note the article in last week's Economist, in which the founders of Vox state that this site uses advertising which is so subtle that the users don't even notice it. In the article, the Vox chiefs (as a tabloid would say- have you noticed how bosses, managers, owners, constables, MPs etc are always referred to as "chiefs" in tabloids? As in- "Tory chiefs", "NHS chiefs", "BBC chiefs"?), say that when we add a link to a site, for instance Amazon, to our blog entries, and someone clicks on it, Vox receive advertising money.

To me, it looks like this QotD is geared towards them getting a few more quid for their Christmas shopping, as we all link merrily away to our favourite sites, and they in turn put pennies in the pockets of the Vox overlords.

Don't you think?

For reasons I can't put my finger on- seeing as we don't pay to use Vox, so why shouldn't they do this? And also, pop-ups would be more annoying, surely?- I feel kind of pissed off about this alleged, implied-by-me stealth advertising. Almost as if QotD was designed merely as a vessel for undercover advertising tactics.

Also, I am probably wrong, and therefore a Boofus Supreme. There ain't no boofus like a self-righteous boofus. 

Also, I was kind of annoyed to see that the Vox chief lady is only 29. Like, only 3 years to catch up. I prefer succesful creative types with good ideas to be significantly older than me.