Jungle!

Hello, sorry, I forgot to mention I was heading to the jungle for the foreseeable future. As a result, this year has a special blog all of its very own.... www.monkey-mission.blogspot.com

I have abandoned you not!
Rachel

Now That Exams Are Over...

Having not written anything for a while, I feel a tad guilty. I appreciate that had I written anything, there is only a very slim chance that anyone would have chosen to read it anyway, and feel on balance that the lack of odd occurences during the exam period is a good enough reason to have neglected this diary until now.

Last weekend I enjoyed a trip to Cosford Airshow, and would like to briefly introduce to you the latest member of my menagerie: Hercules the fish.

I was happily perusing the hangars full of bustling aviation enthusiasts, and enjoying the sounds of the RAF band, when we recieved a phonecall from a member of the group of air cadets we were accompanying.

"No, Cadet So-and-So, we do not want a squadron goldfish..........No, I'm afraid I don't want a goldfish either.......I don't know, I'll ask...."

And so it came to be that shortly afterwards I was transporting a goldfish in a bag around Cosford Air Show.

I have to mention that I don't agree with giving animals away as pets at funfairs, but Bubbles, my other fish, has been thriving happily at home for the last 13 years or more, which is quite incredible considering the average lifespan for a fish kept in a bowl is 5-10 years. Kept in ponds or large aquaria, this figure doubles to 10-20 years. Incidentally, the oldest known goldfish lived to the ripe old age of 43, and I met the owner at a classic car rally a few years back; whether or not the goldfish was older than the car is something I've often wondered but probably will never know the answer to.

Hercules didn't get to see an awful lot of the show apart from the similarly coloured Jaguar seen in the photograph above. He was taken to the local air cadet squadron where he rested away from the bustle of the crowds and aeroplanes until the end of the day. Unfortunately things are never quite simple, and on top of the usual traumas associated with moving house and settling into a new home, poor Hercules also had to deal with a leaky bag. Thankfully, the quick reactions of members of our group meant that Herc was safely relocated to a promotional air cadet bag topped up with bottled water and balanced in the coach driver's lunchbox for the three hour journey back to Cardiff.

He now resides happily in an appropriately sized goldfish bowl and enjoys swimming and water polo.

What's so interesting about my recycling bags?

Let It Be

"When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

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And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be. For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see, there will be an answer, let it be.

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And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me, shine on till tomorrow, let it be. I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be."

In my opinion, one of the greatest songs ever written.

This latest entry is not a musical review however, so let us consider now my housemate's new friend. Well, you'd think he was a friend of hers, after-all he calls at the house on a regular basis, asking for her by name for a friendly chat. Having sucessfully avoided this happy chap for several weeks now, said housemate was most definitely cornered this morning when she opened the door to a prime example of your average neighbourhood religious salesperson.

I can't help thinking that trying to spread the word in this way is doing little more than degrade their message to the same level as that of the pizza menus left on our doormat for months on end, until a housemate/house-elf/womble tidies it away to the recycling bin. And if you think about it, that's a shame, because there's really no malice or ill-intent involved, yet they're so very, very irritating and you can't help wishing they'd leave you alone to the privacy of your own home. By all means, drop the appropriate literature through the letterbox so we can have a nosey over our cornflakes in the morning, but continual harassment is likely to not only turn people away from whichever religion/denomination/sect/cult you're trying to enourage us to join, but also any that are remotely linked, which surely defeats the point of the exercise?

It reminds me of a miserable Saturday afternoon, stood quietly in a queue outside the Brixton Academy a few years back. A determined-looking young man approached the pair of us, who were happily discussing possible songs that might be used to open the impending show, and asked us if we'd like a leaflet. From experience, taking the leaflet to later be recycled usually ends the momentary disruption to conversation, but alas, it was not to be.
"Can I ask you girls a question?" the young man enquired,
"Yeah, guess so," muttered two bored 16-year-olds,
"Have either of you ever told a lie?" he asked,
"Er, yeah, everybody has..." we replied, exchanging guilt-ridden glances,
"WELL!" he burst forth, "Well, let me show you a diagram! This is where you are now, Planet Earth." Excitedly he pointed to the middle of a now very intimidating leaflet, identical to the one offered to us earlier. Above and below our little planet were Heaven and Hell, respectively, illustrated in a dramatic way.
"You have lied. Because of this, you will be going here," the man's eyes narrowed as he pointed at the red flames of eternal damnation.
"YOU CAN BE SAVED!" he exploded, startling several baggy t-shirted teenagers nearby.
"Yes, you can be saved, but you must repent now, NOW, and vow never to lie again, do you understand?"
The glint in his eyes as he continued to tell us of our fate, and the tone of his voice, were anything but encouraging, reassuring or hopeful, as you'd like to think of an organised religion. My point being that there must be ways and means of going about these things that don't involve the semi-traumatisation of young girls on the street or hounding people in the comfort of their own homes.

Incidentally, ten minutes later we were approached by a man handing out books relating to Krishna Consciousness. We agreed to everything he said, smiled, nodded in the appropriate pauses and sent him on his way with the satisfied, but false, knowledge that we'd think about converting.

In retrospect I'd love to speak to the first young man now, and point out that it was his menacing demeanor that led to us lying to the second gentleman. Although, if presented with his questioning into our honesty now, my answer would be along the lines of:
'Yes, I have. I expect you have too. Most of us try not to, but it happens. And if what you're about to try and convince me of is really the truth, then I will discover it in my own time, and not because a scary man on the street tells me so. You're as human as I, and humans lie. If you want to convert me, your best bet is to be nice and hope we follow, or in the words of Lennon and McCartney,

whisper words of wisdom and let it be.'

It's always when you look like Tony Blackburn that you bump into a rockstar.

It was quite possibly my last student radio show this year today! Of course, I hope to be back after jungle-time, but who can say? However, Elena and I decided that the last show should go out with a bang...afterall, the only interesting parts of the show are the bits that go wrong!

So there I was, trying out my new wig. I bought it for Helen's birthday party this evening. It's a 'Green Party', so I thought I'd twist it a bit and come as Dr Alan Statham from 'Green Wing'...if you haven't seen it, you're either too sensible or haven't lived!

Unfortunately, Elena and I decided that there was much more of a resemblence to Tony Blackburn, especially when donning the headphones to speak into the mic. And so it was, with I in my Tony Blackburn wig and Elena sporting a fluorescent green tutu, that Barry from 'The Futureheads' found us, and asked if Elena was the DJ.

'Pfft', I thought, 'Is this how one greets a great Radio 2 DJ? Radio 1, once upon a time, but probably before your time laddy...'
"No, it's her!" said Elena, pointing.
"Oh right, you just played my song..."

I decided to let his earlier slip pass over me, and invited him in for an interview. Amazingly, he accepted and came into the studio. Remembering that I was dressed as a man, I whipped off the wig, with the exclamation:
"I'm wearing a wig!"

Yes. Smooth. I'm sure Jo Whiley doesn't greet her guests dressed as a man.

The interview went very well, and I shall post a link to it when I've put it up on the internet. However, I'm currently back in the wig, coupled with a moustache, pink tights and a labcoat, so I really ought to go somewhere where there's more freaks like me, or else I'll get arrested! Laters.

This Morning I Woke Up in a Tent.

Nothing would be at all surprising about waking up to the sound of raindrops pattering down onto synthetic canvas if one was expecting to be camping. Such situations would perhaps be a family holiday, a Duke of Edinburgh Expedition or maybe a trip to Devon with old school friends. Confusingly, this morning I didn't think I was participating in any of the above activities. Therefore I naturally assumed that I was, of course, in Madagascar. Yes, that must be it. Having lived in my tent for three months, I could imagine it before even opening my eyes. My tent and I were probably parked alongside a pool at the foot of a towering cliff, surrounded by spiky trees and with Ring-tailed lemurs (Lemur catta) scrabbling about for their breakfast before the heat of the day kicks in.

Hang on, the heat of the day? It's bloody freezing, that can't be right.

Ah, so I'm probably further north. Perhaps I'm confused, I'm obviously travelling with Issy before heading home, maybe in Ambalavao. I don't want to go home yet, I miss everyone in Fort Dauphin already.

No wait, this still can't be right because I know what happens today...if I'm in Madagascar and I'm this cold, then this must be the last night we spent in tents before succumbing to Hotelys. But if I'm where I think I am, then how do I know this is the last night I spend in a tent?

*Sigh*, I'm going to have to open my eyes.

On looking around my one-and-a-half-man, pocket-sized tent I see my duvet, pillow, alarm clock and torch crammed in around me. Having firmly established that I did not lug a double duvet around Madagascar for three months, I must be....in Cardiff.

Thankfully I've now filled in all the pieces, and they create a picture something like this:
> Arrive home from a night out at the Union, everyone's tired except for Rachel.
> Rachel decides to sit in the garden for a spot of star-gazing.
> Rachel decides it's quite cold, and so goes to bed.
> Rachel has a ground-breaking idea. 'The garden was cold. My bed is warm. I'd rather be in the garden. Let's take the bed into the garden.'

And so it came to be that there is a tent fully erected in the back garden of a house on Mackintosh Place, complete with guy-ropes properly adjusted, pegs tapped in nice and firmly, and the porch pulled out to deflect the rain from the inner-sheet.

I feel must add that I had a very nice sleep, and that my tent is very appreciative of the unexpected use!

Clowns, Mimes and Predictive Text Messaging

Thursday night saw a neon-nu-rave-style birthday party. Fancy dress is always welcomed, so out came the glowsticks and off we adventured to a less-than-usual haunt for us, venturing into the hard house beats of CYNT for the evening.

What we hadn't expected, was to be the only three people in the club on arrival, or to be followed shortly by two dozen people dressed in exceptionally creepy clown and mime costumes! Being surrounded by double-faced, white-masked oddities doing the 'robot' is something I shall not forget for a long time! (Incidentally, the nu-ravers did appear an hour or two later!) My other, very exciting, discovery of the weekend has been that Sony Ericsson phones keep a list stored of all the words you add to the predictive text dictionary! This was discovered whilst on the train, sat opposite a woman with a peculiar fascination with garden gnomes. My list of words, leaving out names of friends, is as follows:

1. Cardiff
2. Aardvark
3. Chippy
4. Bitch
5. Bonkers
6. Buffalo
7. Attenborough
8. CUTV
9. Eek
10. Dorchester
11. Heck
12. HENSON
13. Incase
14. GOT
15. Greenwing
16. Grr
17. Grrr
18. IT
19. Kaffuffle
20. Jeopardise
21. Llamas
22. Mackintosh
23. Ninja
24. Okeydokez
25. Olga
26. Muppet
27. Penguin
28. Phew
29. Plonker
30. Smithereens
31. Polychaete
32. Soundcheck
33. Spiffing
34. Squished
35. Uppage
36. Wareham
37. YAY
38. YIPPEE
39. Wombat
40. Womble
41. Xpress

I really can't imagine why those words aren't listed as standard, common words in the predictive text memory. Some things will always be a mystery.