As a human being, I feel that I know enough about love to speak about it with authority. My mantra has always been to show and give love, always. When I attended church I lived by it, and since I left, it remains with me. I wholeheartedly believe that there’s no situation in life which needs any other.

I’m not a parent. I’ve never been given the responsibility that comes with bringing new life into the world. Yet, I know what such a responsibility is, above all. To love your child deeply and unconditionally. All else falls into place. You feed them, clothe them and care for them, because to do otherwise would be unthinkable. You celebrate their successes more than you would your own. You cry with them when they fail. You protect them from the evils of the world. You are always there for them, no matter what. You will always love and accept them, whoever they grow up to be.

This is what we call unconditional love.
To be given it is to know the most precious gift in the world. I may not be a parent, but because I have a mother and had a father I know what one is.

You may wonder why I am going to such lengths to prove the above statement. Of course, I’m being as longwinded as always (<.<;;) but I wanted to create the solid foundations which my opinion needs to stand upon regarding an issue which has become so important to me lately.

A report by the American Suicide Prevention Resource Center in 2008 estimated that between 30% and 40% of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender teenagers have attempted to take their own lives. Another study commissioned by the U. S. Government in 1989 found that GBLT youth are four times more likely to commit suicide than their straight peers.

A quick search on Google will find you their names.

Raymond Chase, aged 19.
Tyler Clementi, aged 18.
Cody Barker, aged 17.
Felix Sacco, aged 17.
Jamie Hubley, aged 15.
Justin Aaberg, aged 15.
Billy Lucas, aged 15.
Harrison Brown, aged 15.
Jamey Rodemeyer, aged 14.
Phillip Parker, aged 14.
Caleb Nolt, aged 14.
Seth Walsh, aged 13.
Asher Brown, aged 13.

These are just some of the thousands of other children and young people who took their own lives out of despair, loneliness, abandonment, ridicule, hate, abuse and rejection. Because they couldn’t endure the pain any longer. Kids who had their whole lives ahead of them; full of potential. Kids whose only ‘sin’ (for want of a better word) was their sexuality.

The thing that upsets me so much about these lost lives is that the people around them when they were alive cared so little about them (or hated them so much) that they really felt there was no other option. The love and acceptance that would have been theirs, that they needed so much, was taken away, because of their sexuality.

So many people out there wouldn’t blink an eyelid at their stories. When I was a practising Christian it cut me up that people I knew to be caring, sensible, decent people would become soulless, cruel and ignorant. I couldn’t understand why those professing to own God’s unconditional love could turn on fellow human beings and declare them second class, perhaps for the sake of a few misappropriated words in the Bible.

I still can’t understand. I was ostracized myself for expressing my views. I’m not a lesbian, but I felt the cold shoulder of faith shutting me out like a brick wall, just the same as if I was. Yet I’m still here. Yes, hurting still, but I didn’t lose who I was or what I believe in. I was lucky enough to have unconditional love from the people I love most. Other kids didn’t have that unconditional love. Other kids aren’t here anymore.

It’s time that their deaths aren’t swept under the carpet with pathetic excuses, a la Michelle Bachmann. It’s time that faith-based communities stopped spreading the outright lies that God hates gay people, being gay is an illness that can be cured, that being gay is a choice, that homosexuality is an attack on the sanctity of marriage, that anti-homophobia campaigns are political bandwagons and that AIDS is a divine punishment on gay people (unfortunately, this one I heard with my own ears).

It scares me to know that some of the people who turned on me at church are or may become parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles – blessed with the responsibility of love but without that understanding of the word ‘unconditional’. It chills me to the very bone to know that there is a very good chance that their children may turn out to be gay. How would the parents react? Would they turn a heel and decide to love their children anyway? I’d like to believe so. Unfortunately, it’s not always the case.

The most harrowing example I’ve come across is that of Eric James Borges, who recorded a heartfelt message for the It Gets Better Campaign. The following is hard to watch.

Just a month after recording this video, Eric James committed suicide. He was 19.

I wish I understood why faith (which is all about love) could be the one thing which makes a parent not love but hate their child so deeply. I can only hope that one day homophobia will go the same way as racism, first becoming socially unacceptable, abhorred and then extinct. But how many young people will die before this happens?

Photo of the State House Vigil in Massachusetts, October 5th 2010, remembering the nine gay teens who had died over the previous month. Taken by Jay Asuncion.

Hello! It’s me – the epic procrastinating blogger.
(Boy does she mean that)

Yesterday I left work in the best of moods; a light rain and a frosty wind had blown the clouds away, leaving the sun to shine down on me as I headed to the bus stop. The air smelled so clean and fresh. I thought, ‘Marie, you’re finally on the right track’. The last few months have been exciting, life changing and blessed; packed with good memories to replace the bad ones and personal fulfilment. It of course hasn’t been plain sailing (when could anyone say that about life?), but I feel stronger, more confident and more able to deal with the crap that life throws at me.

I’ve decided I no longer need to apologise for long gaps in between posting. It’s part of a whole new mindset for me. I’ve realised that my normal habit of apologising to everyone and about everything – from going through a doorway first to holding my bus pass the wrong way up – needs to stop. My friends would agree it’s possibly the most annoying characteristic I have, and the ironic thing is – it’s NOT part of me. It’s part of the ‘black dog’ which is, even as I type, being beaten into submission with the aid of Citalopram, job satisfaction and the company of the most amazing friends on the planet.

So – what have I been up to?

In November, the long absence of work at the Library ceased, and ever since I’ve had a steady flow of hours, a total godsend against the financial problems which have been dogging me. I don’t know how many times in the past few weeks that I’ve told colleagues, family and friends that I LOVE MY JOB, but it’s true, and the wonder of it never leaves me.

Libraries in the UK are very much still under threat from government and council cuts and we library assistants are hanging in a kind of limbo, waiting for the hammer to fall. It’s all we talk about. No one knows what is going to happen. One of my colleagues in particular is extremely pessimistic about the future – will libraries even exist in five years time? He thinks not. The popularisation of ebooks, the quite baffling habit of readers preferring to buy their own books rather than reading them for free, the refusal of the government to see the library for what it is – the cornerstone of education and font of knowledge which has been part of civilisation since ancient times… it could be so easy to get depressed about it all.

If I was a poet, I would describe the bittersweet transience I sense in the air. I’m not taking these beautiful weeks for granted, the moments of fulfilment which I see now every day. Maybe it is naïve of me to remain positive, but I am so, enjoying the moment and refusing to prophesy the future. Like the storm clouds, or like the sun, it will come unbidden. I’m powerless to stop it; so why burden myself with worries before it comes?

At the end of November I travelled down south to once again join my friends in Wincanton for Hogswatch, the Discworld celebration of Christmas. Though my home life is getting better, Hogswatch is still the absolute highlight of my year and this one was the best ever! I spent the weekend staying at my friend’s beautiful 15th century house with seven friends, old and new (and two cats).

After a lot of faff I’d managed to put together my seamstress costume, complete with corset and a magnificent red velvet bustle skirt (which had to stay behind in Wincanton due to one of said cats peeing on it overnight). I took part in a very silly Discworld parody of Chicago’s ‘When You’re Good to Mama’, with the resplendent Beth as Rosie Palm and four of us nutters playing her seamstress daughters.

I got the chance to talk to Sir Terry Pratchett again and this time I said something vaugely intelligent! OK, it was me being very geeky about book sale statistics (to my credit, his latest novel Snuff had been two weeks at the top of the fiction bestseller’s list and then stayed quite stubbornly at #2, watching other authors pass it by). He seemed quite pleased and was extremely kind to pose for photographs with me! He also gave a very moving speech during the weekend.

I received some absolutely beautiful presents. My talented jeweller friend Vicky made me a necklace and bracelet with green and hand-blown glass beads and Jean gave me some real hobbit coins from the Shire (geekery overload)!!! Surprisingly enough, I was called up twice to receive anonymous Secret Hogfather (like Secret Santa, only with bony knees) gifts from the Hogfather – the first of which was a Beathty bear whom I’ve named Peventhie (after the four children from the Narnia books). The lady who made these cute hotchpotch bears unfortunately passed away last year from cancer. She was an especially kind and generous woman and very missed. I had been saving up to buy a beathty and missed the chance to buy one… so was especially touched by this present and carried him around with me all day to show him off in the hope that my mysterious benefactor would see how happy I was I hope they did!

I had a little detour on the way back home from Wincanton. Word reached my ears that my favourite singer Beth Hart was doing a gig in Camden Lock on the Tuesday after Hogswatch weekend… perfect timing! So I decided to go with my lovely friend Kris, spending the day beforehand shopping in Camden market with the very lovely Ruth

The show was AMAZING. I got a spot right at the front on stage left, which was right next to Beth’s keyboard – so I was literally only a foot away when she was performing some of my favourites. It was really something to be there to witness her singing ‘Leave the Light On’. She puts so much of herself into her performance, it was truly amazing to watch. And, of course, she sounds even more amazing singing live.

As the show went on I wondered about the possibility of getting to meet Beth at the end of the night, and having pestered Beth’s husband, P.A. and various band members I and a growing number of people were ushered into a side room of Dingwalls. The long(ish) wait was worth it though, because a much more soberly dressed Beth came in later, beaming at us all. She must have been there long after I was, as she made sure to spend good time talking to each person who had waited so long to see her. When I told her I had come a long way, she hugged me! I told her how much her song ‘Am I The One’ meant to me and my friend Colly, whom introduced me to her music what must be 3 years ago now, and she told me that she’d written the song aged FIFTEEN. Wow. To top the weekend off completely, we had our photo taken together and I disappeared off into the darkened Camden high street knowing that this had been definitely one of the best nights of my life.

For a Library.

My soul is like a book;
woken in the morning by the Jolly Postman
and nurtured in the loving arms of Enid,
amid the snows of Narnia.
Looking out into cold reality it saw
hope and endless possibility;
because it found Charlie’s golden ticket and
saw the green world through the eyes of Mole
on that first Spring morning.
Like Bilbo it rushed out without a clean hanky
and made windows with Stig out of jam-jars,
but always came home for tea at Mister Tom’s
because it had a place to belong.

It rose like a seagull riding the thermals,
lifted up by the power of the story.
In Dickens it found a tutor,
in Miss. Eyre it found the inspiration
to reach out with both hands until it knew
how blessed it was to hold Shakespeare,
to understand Chaucer.
When it struggled it was not alone.
It went to Mordor with Frodo and Sam.
It rejoiced in a happy ending and learned
that laughter would heal any wound.
It learned how to banish its demons.

So close a library.
Tell yourself that it is not a hospital or a police station.
No one will die if it is not there; only imagination
and a quiet soul in the corner,
crying for a life diminished.

Photo credit: Monika at Small Packages
The illustration is by the late great Pauline Baynes, who drew Narnia for me.

I’m back from another LARP adventure – bruised, mud-splattered, thorn-stung and still wiping various colours of face paint from my eyes; but guess what? I’m loving it.

This LARP business is fast becoming an obsession for me. When I first dipped my proverbial toe into the world of Durholme and its surrounding environs it was an incredibly strange experience. Though it was definitely entertaining I still felt overwhelmed by and separate from the action, like a cinema-goer who’s wandered through the invisible barrier of the screen. At first all I could do was gawp. Now I’m finding my feet and getting into it a little bit more, I can honestly say there’s nothing quite like LARP for filling your Saturdays.

Two weeks ago Sable returned to Durholme and went on an expedition into the surrounding area of Rovac, in which she met the True Elves of the Hidden Valley, helped to free them from the tyranny of invading dwarves and tried her best not to get killed. Climbing up and down the wooded hills surrounding Durham, I must admit I was impressed by the system; a huge crowd of extras playing NPCs or ‘non-player characters’, who did their bit and then quickly ran on ahead to the next designated encounter spot, then changed character completely. The thought and depth which is ploughed into the game behind the scenes is staggering. Thus I was overjoyed when I arrived this morning to be told that I was to be part of the ‘monster’ crew and playing an NPC.

Today’s adventure was in the land of Andalucia; home and stronghold of the elemental elves. The goal of the character party was to break into the city and plant a bomb in the enclave at the centre, their overall aim to free the slaves and deliver peace and freedom (by killing all the elves in the city!). The elemental elves in Andalucia live by a strict caste system; the ruling Quenya (or white elves) at the top and the outcast Drow (or black elves) at the bottom, to be avoided at all costs. In the middle, you have the Aerokin (blue elves), judges and scholars, then the Pyrokin (red elves), guards and warriors, the Nixies (green elves), traders and merchants and finally the Tomten (brown elves), the farmers and workmen. Each elf is recognised by the scarf tied around their head, or more predominantly by the colour of their face.

Break out the face paint! My first character was a teenage Aerokin (complete with blue face), picnicking in the ‘Garden of Idyllic Beauty’ with her mother, brother and nanny (a human slave). Understandably, it was not long before it occurred to us that the chances of our characters actually surviving a meeting with the invading hordes were pretty slim. Nevertheless we had such a great time playing tag, throwing grass at each other and arguing about grades at school and temple purification rites that it was a shame when they finally turned up. So what did we do? We legged it up the path to ‘daddy’ (Glorfindel, no less). While ‘daddy’ fended against the attackers (then disappeared?), we ran for our lives. I screamed my head off, ran off into the long grass then resorted to crying when we were cornered seconds later. Across the field, my ‘brother’ was struck down and my ‘mother’ had her legs chopped off.

We were herded together. While I continued to snivel (so much better at that than talking), the attackers demanded of us knowledge of the whereabouts of the keys of the city. We didn’t know, so mother dear was healed and sent off to find daddy, who had escaped. Forced to follow, I continued to sniff, then made another player laugh OOC by pointing at him and calling him scary (in Aerokin, of course \o/). Language barriers aside, the party decided to let the kids go and we ran before they could change their minds. Change their minds they did, apparently, for as we ran, fighting broke out behind us. In a fit of fear, the ‘nanny’ pushed me off the path into the trees, into which I became hopelessly entangled and had to be pulled out again.

In crossing the barrier into the next encounter, we said goodbye to our Aerokin characters and ran on to the refs who handed us our next. I should perhaps explain at this point; in adventures, the refs (who organise everything) are always a couple of steps ahead of the character party and giving new characters to the people who are ‘monstering’.

This was how I ended up standing alone on a deserted stretch of woodland path with my face painted brown. Awkwardly greeting the random passersby. Who said, and I quote, “you’re going to give someone a heart attack” (surely I’m not that scary?) and “well, it keeps you out of mischief” (how old does he think I am?).

I was meant to be waiting for the character party to turn up and give me a bomb, with which I would blow up the enclave at the centre of the city. It wasn’t until I had trudged up the hill carrying said bomb and spotted the character sporting a V-for-Vendetta mask that I realised we were in fact playing at being Guy Fawkes (5th of November had obviously escaped me) and I might have possibly been it. Nevertheless, said bomb went off, shortly followed by a gang of humans (with squiggly slave marks on their faces) hurtling back down the path, with much screaming and waving of swords. One of which was hurtling slightly less quickly down the path as she so desperately did not want to fall flat on her face.

Rather than defending against this such-appearing threat (as hoped for) or at least responding animatedly to this new encounter (as expected), the character party parted calmly like the Red Sea on a calm day and let us carry on hurtling past. And at this point, it all went slightly pear-shaped.

I’ve never been fond of mud. I’m not a fan of steep hillsides either. When the two are combined, this spells disaster… or rather not, since I’m a wuss and would rather shuffle down the hill verrry slowwwly rather than roly poly down it at a considerably faster pace. Two hours later and with the kind assistance of my fellow ‘slaves’, we reached the bottom and witnessed the character party making their way over a large stone block under which a stone pipe was belching water from the treatment plant further upstream. Unfortunately for all of us, this block was covered in mud. Unfortunately for me, it was also covered in thorns; a fact that I didn’t notice until I put my bare hand on them. By the time I’d managed to jump across the rather deep gap courtesy of a rather strong tree branch and more helping hands, my wrist was a medley of white swelling. Ouch.

Nevertheless, we carried on up the hill and after what seemed quite a long way we caught up with the refs. This time I was remaining a slave, and had been recruited by two elves to guard the passage up into the centre of the city. Against an invading horde, some of which had quadruple hits – more than enough to fell you with one blow. While debating whether to run or stand my ground, I got hit and duly fell to the ground, dead as a dead slave. And then, muggins put her swollen hand on yet another patch of thorns.

Coming up behind the character party, the end was in sight (as was a bonfire started by some kids). Though not before the final act; the refs had another surprise for me. As more or less every elemental elf in the city had fled or popped their clogs, there only remained one of the ruling Quenya alive – the ruler of the city and keeper of the keys which inferred the authority to govern. A decrepit old man… and when one of the refs came to offer me this part, I began to wonder if they’d watched my less than graceful procession down the hill earlier. But I was glad for this part. Glad! You see, I could hide the fact that I was tired and inept at fleeing across uneven ground with potholes and old train tracks and whatever else had been placed strategically there to make me fall into another patch of thorns. (Old man, right?)

So, kitted up with white face paint, a white bandana and someone else’s shirt, I and my bodyguard attempted to flee up the hill from a disturbingly large group of roaring characters. Almost felled in one swoop, I collapsed for the final time and was ‘revived’ just in time for one of the surrounding group to kneel down beside me and smirk, “Do you know who I am?” Looking up into the face of a laughing dark elf, the traitor and sworn enemy of white elves like my old man, he was thinking ‘oh bugger’ and I was thinking ‘oh bugger, what do I do now?’ That decision was thankfully taken from me as out of nowhere someone jumped over me and killed the dark elf. Hoorah! Unfortunately that someone also wanted the keys that I was currently lying on. However several minutes of coaxing later I finally gave up the keys and the adventure was, six hours later, finally over.

P. S. Sadly I did not have time to go to the debriefing afterwards as my lift home had turned up. I would be really grateful to anyone who could fill me in!

I don’t see any planes. It’s funny, that. Every minute more people come through the doors marked ‘arrivals’, but the sun glares so fiercely on the windows that you can’t see how they got here. By screwing up my eyes I can just make out a patch of blue sky among all the endless white; but then, it could be my mind playing tricks on me. From a different spot on the concourse it looks almost grey. Maybe it’s snowing outside. Perhaps we’re snowed in, and the entire place is a giant airport-shaped igloo.

The airport’s boiling, as well. If the blinding white wasn’t already enough, the seemingly thousands of people wandering around in their business suits, kaftans and summer dresses aren’t helping. I’m one of them, of course. No idea where I’ve come from and none of where I’m going to. Above all the noise the tannoy system drones unintelligibly about arrivals and numbers and occasionally calling people by name to the arrivals desk. There’s nothing being said about departures, though. There’s probably been another volcano blowing its top in Iceland or another terrorist attack somewhere in America. It would explain why this place is so packed.

Surprisingly enough all the seats are taken, and a short wander around tells me all the duty free shops are closed. I never did wear a watch so god knows what time it is. There seem to be two types of people here; the type who push past with frowns on their faces and intent in their eyes and the ones who sit around in small mismatched clumps; like children on a school trip; vacant faces waiting for their teacher to finish sorting out the passports and tickets. Since I’m not sat down, I let myself be dragged along in the current, away from arrivals. I become aware of a mechanical noise which, as I approach, evolves into a cacophonous methodical thunk in the air.

There’s a huge crowd around the baggage carousel, even more than there was in the main hall. Hundreds upon hundreds of people packed into a relatively small space, all jostling and fighting to get closer to the moving belt. Nearby, two men start fighting, like tigers tearing each others’ skin clean off. No one else seems to notice though, or maybe they don’t care; parting and passing over the struggling figures as irresistable as the sea. Forcing myself to the wall, I gradually push my way past until the crowd becomes calmer and the carousel, into sight.

The calmness of the crowd at the epicentre is soon explained. Though the machinery rotates on and on, no luggage comes through the curtains. The people nearest stare at the fluttering plastic with expressions of such longing, impatience and silent worry that it is if they wait for their very heart’s desires to shudder through into the light. They come forward and stay by the machine as long as they can, until the tide turns and they fade back into the unforgiving crowd.

I too am eventually tugged backwards and some disorientating minutes later, find myself walking purposefully down a corridor away from the tumultuous mass. The passage twists and turns and lo! Like a beacon of heavenly light shines the lurid green EXIT sign. Following the signs blindly I emerge into what could only be the departure lounge, and the gates into freedom. The people around me surge forward, looks of ecstasy on their faces and arms outstretched, like extras in a cheap chick flick that went straight to video. A small smile escapes me but is then replaced by surprise as a pair of strong arms pull me straight through the gates and towards the doors, refusing to let me go.

Instinctively I pull backwards, remembering my forgotten luggage. An all-too familiar voice says, “We’ll deal with that later,” and I’m firmly forced forwards by even more arms, still wrapped in the bear hug. There’s a halt, and a queue, and a line of people being security checked and passing through the doors into the sun, and they depart into the haze, laughing like old friends. Then it is our turn and our passes are checked. The security guard looks at me and tells me I have no pass and must step aside. Reluctantly the arms release me. It’s only then that I saw my father and my grandfather walking away from me, in the seconds before the door closed. Before the light was shut out and my eyes opened.

If you’ve spoken to me at all recently you may have noticed the sudden and intense interest I’ve taken in sewing, dressmaking, card-making, painting and all things creative in general. I’ve made so many things in the past month or so that I decided to a) record what I’d done for posterity and b) share with you all what I’ve been up to.

I’ve named this post so as a little joke, as one of the costumes I’ve been working on recently is a seamstress (a la Discworld/Terry Pratchett) Victoriana corset and bustle skirt outfit for this year’s Hogswatch celebrations in November. Discworld aficionados will know all about the double entendre attached to the word ‘seamstress’. However I can assure any sniggering male Pratchett geeks out there (I *know* who you are) that the type of seamstress I am rapidly becoming is the type which wields a needle, thread and five pound sewing machine. Be warned.

Funnily enough this craft spree started off by pure accident. A few weeks ago I went to a camping convention, Wadfest, which is run and populated by the same Discworld geeks I knock about with down in Wincanton. The weather that weekend was beautiful and as such, me and my pale skin spent a prolonged period of time hiding in a tent. While I was there I found something rather interesting to do. And time consuming. Time consuming!

One of the stalls in the main tent was selling unpainted plaster casts of spaceships and ‘COMPLETELY GENERIC POLICE BOXES’ (made by the awesome Shaun of MythCast) which you could sit down and paint. As you can guess from the number of photographs (courtesy of Loz!), I spent quite a lot of time doing just that. Unfortunately I was too busy organising talent show turns and generally having too much fun to finish the blasted thing. So a purchase of some acrylic paint and a week or so later, this is what I ended up with.

The next project I embarked on is something I’ve been planning for quite a while, and the first part of my costume for Hogswatch. It is pretty traditional for ladies attending the sausage supper at Hogswatch to wear a corset, as apparently Sir Terry is rather fond of ‘ladies who wear their underwear on the outside’. I’ve never worn one before but decided to join in this year. Being me, I never do anything by halves and so I wanted the whole caboodle – long flowing gathered skirts, lace, velvet, satin, a HUGE bustle… and so, I decided to make a bustle skirt to go on top of it all.

I used a wonderful tutorial I found on Corrine Leigh’s new Youtube channel Craftovision to make my skirt, and I used a deep burgundy stretchy velvet with thick black lace. It has three layers and a band wide enough to go round the hips. This project took up a lot of ‘quality’ time with my sewing machine but in the end I was triumphant! Although this is intended to be a skirt, it also makes a GREAT cape and I can foresee having a lot of difficulty deciding how to wear it.

In just over a week’s time I’m heading down south again for my amazing friend Kris’s 60th birthday party. The theme is ‘fantasy’ and as such, I decided to go as a hobbit! I’m really excited about this, being such a Tolkien fan, and as I quite see myself as a hobbit this is probably about time. I bought myself some latex pointy ears for the upcoming LARP season, and while I’m still waiting for the vast majority of my costume to arrive I distracted myself with creating a flower wreath headband.

Mine was made with copper craft wire twisted around/with fake ivy which I found at the not-so-local craft mecca in Washington. My mum spotted some fake lavender which I tucked in at intervals, and tied some light green ribbon remnants at intervals, partly to keep the lavender in place and partly to keep the larger leaves tamed. I finished it off with a long matching ribbon at the back to fasten the band in place, which makes it fully adjustable!

Last Sunday I found out that a family friend was selling prints of her paintings and other goodies on a stall at church to raise money for her sister’s sponsored trip to the foot of Everest, a charity event which will fund the building of a new school in Nepal and fill it with books. I was particularly inspired by this and decided to make a contribution of my own to the stall. As I’d been considering making my own pincushion I hit on the idea of making lots of little ones from different fabrics and ribbon I have lying around. I made fifteen in all over the last two days (and managed to completely rid myself of all my synthetic filling, oops).

Once I’d finished with the other pincushions, I set out to make my own. I’ve been wondering for a while what kind of shape to make my pincushion, as I wanted to make something special to me. I hit on the idea of using one of the iron on patches I got back when I was putting together my Rimmer costume for Wadfest. Found on eBay, they’re not particularly cheap but are really good quality. I chose a Ravenclaw patch, black brocade and black velveteen (left over from last Hogswatch’s witch hat) and some of the lovely bead trim I collected when I went shopping for the fabric for my bustle skirt. The bead trim made it very difficult to sew on my machine – and the end result was rather bigger than I had originally planned! – but I am over the moon with the result and love it to bits.

There is one more craft project which has taken up a lot of my time this month… but for reasons which will sooner or later become apparent, I’m keeping it under wraps for now

Next on my list… matching burgundy velvet spats for my black high-heeled boots. I’m also hoping to make a start on a mask, again for Hogswatch, as this year’s theme is Mardi Gras! I have visions of feathers, lace, red velvet, red and gold silky swirls and perhaps a hint of steampunk… but that’s all to come!

I began writing this as an instruction notecard for an online roleplay game set in the world of Harry Potter. It was intended as a guide for players who want to learn how to sound more authentically British in the things they say. However, it struck me that a list like this may be interesting and/or useful to a much wider audience; especially if they are of a stateside alliegance (If I’m wrong in this, bugger off).

~~~

This is written especially with American, European or other wordly players in mind! Here are some suggestions for improving the way your character speaks

You should have worked out by now where your character is from within the British Isles, or Ireland. Where you are from makes a big difference to how your character will speak, beyond the accent. You might find it interesting to explore local slang information on the internet – the less understandable, the better!

That said there are a few general things you will want to include in your character’s vocabulary.

Swearing, Insults and Expressing Disappointment In Less Offensive Ways

Because we Brits have a plethora of wonderful ones, believe me.

Don’t say…

1. ‘Bummer’, as in ‘That’s a bummer’. It means something completely different in Britain.
2. ‘Lame’, as in ‘This class is so lame’.
3. ‘Douche’ as in ‘You’re such a douchebag’.
4. ‘Dork’, as in ‘That Slytherin’s such a dork’.
5. ‘Jerk’, as in ‘He’s a jerk’.
6. ‘Fanny’. This is a British one, but it’s another word which means something incredibly rude.

DO say…

1. ‘Bugger’. An all purpose word used in a variety of ways. ‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers’, ‘Oh bugger’, ‘Bugger it’, ‘Bugger off’, ‘You silly bugger’. Do not say any of these in front of a professor.
2. ‘Bloody’. Another good one, used by Ron Weasley in the films. ‘Bloody hell!’, ‘Bloody nora’, ‘That bloody owl keeps screeching in my ear’.
3. ‘Blooming’. A more polite version of ‘bloody’.
4. ‘Toss’. ‘I don’t give a toss’. Also an insult – ‘Look at that Gryffindor. What a tosser’.
5. ‘Arse’. Not ass, but means the same thing. ‘Arse!’, ‘That stupid arse’, ‘Smart arse!’.
6. ‘Naff’. Generally means ‘rubbish’. ‘That cloak looks naff’.
7. ‘Pants’. Very similar to ‘naff’.
8. ‘Daft’. An adjective to refer to anyone or anything which is acting silly or not working as it should. ‘My knee’s going daft’ (older person), ‘I thought Ravenclaws weren’t meant to be daft’, ‘This homework we’ve been set is just daft’.
9. ‘Dodgy’. For a person, it means they are shifty and not to be trusted. For a thing, it means it is likely to break or is of dubious quality. ‘I wouldn’t eat that/stand on that, it looks a bit dodgy’, ‘Here, who’s that dodgy guy over there?’.

And moving on to some really good insults.

1. ‘Prat’. Also an unfortunate surname with two Ts. ‘What is that Hufflepuff doing? She looks like a total prat!’, ‘You stupid prat, you left your toad in my bed!’.
2. ‘Twit’. A friendly insult. ‘You silly twit, you have frogspawn on your face.’
3. ‘Twat’. Believe it or not, a much ruder version of ‘twit’.
4. ‘Berk’. A very unfriendly insult, and not to be used in front of a professor. ‘You stupid berk!’.
5. ‘Git’. A tame insult, with a hint of anger attached to it and usually aimed at males. ‘Stupid git, what did you have to go and do that for?!’.
6. ‘Muppet’. Quite a tame one, which insinuates stupidity. ‘Listen to what that muppet’s done now’.
7. ‘Ponce’. Refers to someone who is posh, acts posh or shows off a lot. ‘Look at that ponce, lording it over everyone else’.
8. ‘Nancy’. Similar in useage to ‘sissy’. It means a boy who is acting feminine or behaving in a cowardly manner. ‘Nancy boy!’.
9. ‘Sissy’. See above, although this one can refer to girls too.
10. ‘Pillock’. This is a common favourite among Brits. I’m not entirely sure what it means myself, but it does seem to have a cattle-like nuance to it, and generally is similar to ‘muppet’ in meaning.
11. ‘Plonker’. Fans of Only Fools and Horses will be familiar with this. Similar to ‘Pillock’.
12. ‘Numpty’. Similar again to the above two.
13. ‘Dope’. Or ‘dopey’. We love words which mean ‘stupid person’ here.
14. ‘Wally’. A name in some parts of the world, but in Britain it means you’re making a fool of yourself.
15. ‘Trollop’. A not very nice word to use for a girl who is a little too easy, or perhaps dresses as if she was. Don’t use this in front of a professor. Younger kids would not have heard this one.
16. ‘Codger’. A very good word to use in reference to a professor you don’t like. ‘Professor Smith? Oh, that daft old codger.’
17. ‘Blighter’. A little old-fashioned or upper class in usage, refers to something little and annoying. Perhaps a house elf, or a pet. ‘That nasty little blighter’.
18. ‘Nutter’. A word to use when you think someone is seriously insane, or for someone who did something extremely dangerous without thinking. ‘What the hell is he doing? That nutter sent the bludger straight at my face!’.

Alternative Words For Common Objects

Pretty much self-explanatory. Every day names for concepts and objects you would use if you were British.

Buddy ====> Mate (quite masculine, or northern in useage).
Vacation ====> Holiday, ‘hols’.
Principal ====> Headmaster, headmistress.
Janitor ====> Caretaker.
Pants ====> Trousers.
Knickers ====> Pants.
Sneakers ====> Trainers.
Suspenders ====> Braces. We do use the word suspenders, but for something else.
Rubbers, rainboots ====> Wellies.
Rain coat ====> Mac. Not to be confused with the computer.
Bathroom, restroom ====> Toilet. Loo is more polite. Bathroom means there’s a bath in it.
Closet ====> Cupboard.
Faucet ====> Tap.
Trash can ====> Bin.
Guy ====> Bloke.
Mom ====> Mum. Or if you’re Irish or from Northern parts, Mam.
Liquor ====> Alcohol, booze.
Soccer ====> Football. Although interestingly, Soccer was an English word.
Baseball ====> Rounders, a children’s game which is very similar.
Fall (season) ====> Autumn.
Dollar, buck ====> Pound, quid.
Candy ====> Sweets.
Chips ====> Crisps.
Fries ====> Chips.
Jelly ====> Jam.
Jell-o ====> Jelly.
Popsicle ====> Lolly, lollipop.
Cookie ====> Biscuit.
Molasses ====> Treacle, specifically the black kind.

In the interests of completion, feel free to suggest your own!

Additional. Perhaps WordPress needs to read this post. When I’d published it, I got a lovely little message telling me how stupid I was for having posted in the first place?

“This is your 110th post. Dope! This post has 1,027 words.”

I’ve just finished a book which really touched me. Although I love reading and adore books of all kinds, it is quite rare that one should embed itself so deep into my consciousness and leave me with the same deep satisfaction and calm. This one has done that.

If you’ve noticed the tags I’ve attributed to this post you may have already guessed the title of the book I’m about to praise up to the heavens. However I’m not going to go on the usual ‘Terry Pratchett is my hero’ spiel as I feel that is getting a little old now… and plus, you’ve probably seen it before*. The same with the melodramatic and overlong introductions which seem to dominate all descriptions of both the things I love and the wonderful new discoveries I make as I go along. Ooops.

Isn’t it wonderful, to have a personal blog?

I picked Terry Pratchett’s Nation up quite some time ago, in the interests of completion and amid the hype surrounding the stage debut of the play. I heard mixed reports (mostly negative, I’m sorry to say) about the production but glowing, albeit biased, reviews of the book itself. A good friend warned me it was not a good choice for someone who is already depressed. It made a full round trip to London and back in my backpack and several months of sitting on a shelf before I came to the point of picking it up, dusting off the cover and beginning to read.

That was two days ago. The following morning, I had finished it.

On the surface, Nation has a pretty simple concept. At the end of a coming-of-age rite, a young boy named Mau sets sail to return to his tribe. On the way his canoe is overwhelmed by a tidal wave which lays waste to the island he calls home. He reaches the shore only to discover the life he had known shattered before him; the houses and the god stones washed out to sea and all those he knew in his past dead or gone.

However, Mau finds himself far from alone upon the island. He hears constant demands from the Grandfathers in his head; to utter the chants, to find the god stones, to uphold the Nation as its new chief. The single survivor of the shipwrecked Sweet Judy – a young Trouserman calling herself Daphne – confuses things further. As yet more people arrive on the island in search of the lives they too have lost, Mau is left to build the Nation from the ruins of its past, and perhaps more importantly, to discover who he is and what he truly believes in.

It is difficult to describe what it is about this book which engendered such a powerfully positive reaction, especially since it was meant to be terribly sad. It is, in a way, as the perfectly good happy ending you would expect doesn’t take place, because life isn’t like that. The happiness and satisfaction is of an entirely different kind – of strong foundations laid, success gained through trial and the importance of never giving up. Of victory snatched from the jaws of Locaha. Of discovering your own soul. Of good lives lived and legacies left, and the power over all of the story. Of good endings.

It totally warms my heart that Nation is a book written for young adults, for the growing mind. It still has a lot to teach the mind of a 27 year old with the kind of problems she didn’t have as a teenager. This book has a lot to say on how to deal with your problems, how to go on with your life, how to move, how to grow. This book is just what I needed right now. Bravo, Mr. Pratchett.

* My admiration of the Man in the Hat is no secret.

The photograph was taken in the Lava Beds National Monument in Tulelake, California by Albert Khaydatov. It so reminded me of the cave of the Grandfathers that I had to include it.

Here’s a question for the more culinarily-inclined of you out there. Are you feeling hungry right now? Really hungry? So hungry you could eat an elephant? Try this out for size…

3. Mega Sushi Roll

Japan is well-known for its indulgence in ‘micro-cuisine’. Given the Japanese fascination for all things tiny, it is perhaps not surprising that the Japanese eat small too – from the lunchtime staple of the bento [弁当] boxed lunch to the dizzyingly diverse range of sushi dishes being produced in restaurants all over the world (and, so it seems, on every street in Greater London).

Sushi Umewaka [梅若寿し] is such a restaurant, located in Anjō city in north-western Aichi. In recent years it has become famous – not for its clientele or the reputation of its chefs, but the sheer size of its sushi! Breaking apart from the Japanese norm, Umewaka takes pride in its star dish – the ‘Mega Sushi Roll’ – which takes 20 different types of filling and a 2 metre length of nori [海苔] and rice to wrap it all. Altogether coming in at 6 kilos in weight, this is a dish most certainly living up to its name. To put this into perspective, a regular makizushi [巻き寿司] or sushi roll weighs approximately 400 grams.

But say you were sojourning in Anjō one evening and felt a hankering for some sushi, you may have to stick with the normal sized stuff. Orders for the giant sushi roll must be made two days in advance, and in all the meal will set you back by the shogunly sum of ¥15,000 – the equivalent of £120 in British currency. Or if your eyes aren’t big enough for the sushi roll, for the same price you can watch as the chef whips up a set of giant nigirizushi [握り寿司], topped with giant slabs of salmon, omelette, squid or an entire dish of fish roe. Then for afters, why not try a tiny collection of sushi just big enough to entirely fit inside a matchbox? This is Japan, after all!

Click here to watch a Japanese TV station’s report from the restaurant.

Personally, I’m hoping my next birthday party involves one of these!

Photo credit: 立食師

As June approaches, the minds of the Great British public inevitably turn to a concentrated selection of topics; balmy summer afternoons, strawberries and cream and the sound of racquet striking ball… yes, you’ve guessed it – Wimbledon. For two weeks, the eyes of the nation become fixed on south-west London as once again, the (arguably) most famous and most prestigious tennis tournament gets under way.

Our house is no exception. My mum and brother are huge fans of Wimbledon and sit for hours watching the matches, or discussing the players at mealtimes; bemoaning, along with the rest of the country, as each British player gets knocked out. It doesn’t matter where we happen to be at the time. I have many memories of holiday cottages in the Lake District or Yorkshire, lying slumped in a chair or desperately trying to otherwise distract myself from the boredom which inevitably descends on me at this time of year.

As you may by now have guessed, I am not a Wimbledon fan. Watching a tennis match is, for me, just slightly less entertaining than watching paint dry. However, the sheer irony of finding myself writing a blog post about it is just as perversely entertaining as was listening to the unearthly and distinctly parrot-like grunts of Maria Sharapova echoing through the dining room wall this afternoon.

I always thought that it was also so wonderfully ironic that a nation of people who most of the year couldn’t give a monkey’s uncle about tennis suddenly become its most avid fans; at least, for the space of two weeks. A nation which forgoes its eternal dislike of British summer weather to line up in the pouring rain, just to see a match. That is, until one of the Williams sisters has collected the trophy and we all go back to lavishing all our sporting attentions on football (another of my favourite subjects).

However in its defence, Wimbledon is about as British as it gets. I might roll my eyes at the hype, the predictability and the repetitiveness of it all, but even the sceptic in me has to grudgingly admit that without our beloved tennis tournament, the great British summer would just not be the same.