Letters

Dearest, Darling Angela,

I am writing this letter because I feel compelled to tell you how I feel about you.

I have admired you from afar for far too long. I yearn for you. My heart droops when you’re not around – like the ears of a sad bunny rabbit who has been robbed of his carrot.

And unlike this sad bunny rabbit, Angela, my heart cannot simply be shut in a hutch. It will continue to beat through my prison of hay. I shall not be content with a replacement carrot.

I think I’m in love with you.

I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re so beautiful on the outside. Like rainbows. I bet you’re just as beautiful on the inside. Hypothetically speaking, if I cut off your skin, and pulled back the fleshy curtains, I assume your blood would be made of rainbows.

I wish I was as beautiful as you. I think about this too. It makes me more than a droopy, carrot deprived bunny rabbit…It made me angry. For days. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat…not even liver, and that’s my favourite. I cut the tail off next doors cat, and that cheered me up for a little while; long enough to replace all the mirrors in my apartment.

I just have pictures of you instead now. It’s definitely brightened the place up.

If I did cut your skin off, still hypothetically speaking of course, I think I’d try it on, and then you could see me be as beautiful as you are, and maybe then you could find it in your heart to love me, because I’d be on your level.

I want to bring you tea and toast served on my finest Edwardian china.

I want to know what your elbows smell like.

Sometimes, I want to rip out your intestines and feed them to an angry hyena.

Because that’s what love feels like Angela.

I know that you feel it too. The connection we have. It’s like electricity flowing through a  power drill, or a nail gun, or other weapon…erm, I mean, household appliances.

I’ve seen the way you look at me when you’re signing for a parcel. I can hear your ‘thank you’ is laced with lust. I know, when I push the mail into your mailbox, you’re on the other side of the door thinking ‘hot damn, I wish he’d post his male into my malebox’.

And I can’t blame you Angie baby…I have this effect on many women.

But unlike those other women, you can have this male delivered to your door within 24 hours. You can thank me later.

I would never stand you up and not return your calls for months like the last 7 men you invited over (not that I’m counting Angela). I can’t understand why anybody would be so mean as to just…disappear from your life. What happened to them? It’s a mystery.

I hear that nobody knows, but that they definitely weren’t killed by the mailman.

So my dear, sweet sweet Angela, filled with rainbows and vital organs and sexual desire, please no longer let my love go unrequited. We could take things slowly. Maybe you could come to my apartment, have a couple of drinks, we could watch the texas chainsaw massacre or something.

I’d really love to show you my collection of spleens. No woman has ever seen that before. I bet you have a beautiful spleen. It would take pride of place in my spleen display.

Would love to hear from you soon. Otherwise I’ll have to cut my own hand off, one finger at a time, and then I’ll run out of fingers and I’ll have to start cutting up other things, like lettuces and penguins and shop assistants and children and you’ll read about it in the Times and see it on the news and I’ll send shreds of lettuces and penguins and shop assistants and children to you in the mail like a salad, and you’ll know what you did Angela.

But I’m sure that won’t happen.

All my love

Hector

(Your mailman)

 

It’s national poetry day!

It was dawn and the wind

Gentle and kind caressed my naked face

Passing the day

With melodies it whispered on the breeze

But in moonshadow he becomes the wolf

Howling, puts a thousand suns to sleep

As clouds and raindrops gathered.

Thunder applauding, the lightning kissed the trees

And then the fire came.

Every last inch of skin and bone ablaze

Bringing a flamenco

Of vanilla and red wine and cigarettes

Fingersteps trace

A pathway across exotic new lands

Dancing in the flames

And I wonder why you are so far away

‘I need feminism because i need more vaginas in my cabinet!’ says British PM (allegedly)

So the tories are in again…

I won’t bore you with my despair on this issue. After all, thousands of protesters are doing a far better job at expressing this despair in London right now. But as i was having a browse at the impending cabinet reshuffle, i came across an interesting quote.

‘Mr Cameron is expected to promote a number of women having failed in his stated aim, set out before the 2010 election, of having women account for a third of ministerial positions by the end of the last Parliament‘.

Shouldn’t the quote read ‘Mr Cameron is expected to promote a number of female MP’s to the cabinet because they’re bloody good at their jobs‘?!

The basis for feminism and equality isn’t to promote someone simply because they have a vagina.

I’m not saying that employing more women in government is a bad thing by any means. Women can be massively successful politicians and Nicola Sturgeon is a prime example of this. But the appointment of a cabinet minister should be based on their skills, their achievements and their desire for the job – not because their genitals fulfill some kind of quota.

Once again a stale, pale male has made an attempt at improving the state of female equality. And once again, he has rather missed the point…

Tiny creature

Alice's Vision

‘Little ladybird’

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February…what are you for? (Flowers, pancakes, and sloths as it turns out)

So i’m inside the house on a lazy Monday afternoon. And, I must admit, i’m feeling a little sorry for myself; I’ve just burnt my finger on the oven trying to make a fish finger sandwich. I’ve had to wrap damp kitchen roll round the burn like some kind of limp, soggy finger puppet. It’s quite disturbing.

I should be at university today, and i’m not, so perhaps this latest assault from my kitchen appliance was karma from the educational system. The truth is I don’t know why I haven’t gone in.
I don’t feel ill.
I don’t feel tired.
I just feel a bit…
Meh.

I’m looking up through my window…and it’s all just grey. The sky is one big steely cloud glaring down. ‘I could snow’ it taunts ‘but I can’t be arsed.’ Even the climate is ‘meh’.

So is it just that time of year? After all, what really happens in February?

Pancake day…that’s quite good. That’s something to look forward to.
‘Lets take all the fat and sugar and other assorted yummy stuff in our cupboards and eat it all yaaaaaaaay!’. I know in times gone by it was supposed to be a pre-empting binge to lent’s relentless purge but, that seems to have disappeared in our house. We just like to omnomnom.
I wonder why we don’t have pancakes any other time of year. They’re perfectly nice after all. It’s like turkey, crème eggs, and the ultimate seasonal snack – piggies in blankets! They’re around for a few weeks then disappear, forgotten for another year. Why can’t yucky things be relegated to 2 weeks of the year instead, like courgettes or something?

Then there’s Valentine’s day…

Everyone went berserk on the old social media this Valentine’s day! I couldn’t avoid posts like ‘Aww best day with ma bbz luv ya bby gyal’ or ‘wil b wiv ma bb boi 4 lyfey’. In my opinion, if you were so in love, you would at least have the decency to refer to your ‘bby gyal’ with correct spelling and grammar.
My name only contains 4 letters, and my dad still addresses my texts to ‘Fa’. Apparently his only child doesn’t deserve letters ‘Y’ and ‘E’. That really gets my goat! Or as my dad might say, ‘that rall gts m goat’

One girl practically told the whole of the internet she was going to be fornicating! That’s not on is it?
I’m all for a good bonk, honestly, but do you really want your extended family to know it’s not only rose petals he’s laying on that bed?

Speaking of rose petals, there were plenty of traumatised looking young men wandering round Huddersfield, trying to protect their Tesco value bouquets from the sleet and hail. Lilys and carnations bowed their heads, bent double under the wrath of the furious February winds. I imagine some women just received a bunch of stems.
Flowers are a bit of an odd gift though aren’t they? They’re pretty for a week and then they die. That’s a tad macabre.

I think a cuddle would be an ideal valentines gift.

Which is why I think my perfect valentine date would be a sloth.
Now, hear me out on this one! The three toed sloth loves climbing, cuddling, and, most importantly, hibiscus flowers – also known as ‘sloth chocolate’. Meaning for a gift you could cover flowers and chocolates in one go! So easily pleased.
The world land speed record for a sloth is 1.5m/s – so if he tried to run away, (which men occasionally do from me, I have no idea why!) you could just pick him up and snuggle him again.
They can’t argue with you. They only make little squeaky noises. D’aww :’)
And sometimes, sloths fall out of trees, because they try to grab their own arms thinking it’s a tree branch. How do you get cuter than that?!

Who would your ideal valentines date be and why? Answers on a postcard ;D (comments box)

Peace and love
Faye

And Sloth Queen Buttercup

Running the Country; Why Students Know Best

Evening all. I’m Faye. And I’m a student.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Student. ‘She sleeps in til 3pm on weekdays!’ ‘She’s sponging off our economy!’ ‘Standards are slipping, look, she started a sentence with and!’ (<< one for the grammar police there).

But, despite what your qualms with my co-ordinating conjunctions may be, I really feel like I could sort the government out in about 3 minutes.

To set the record straight, I don’t support a political party as such. I know some feminists may be raging at that statement, but when Emiline Pankhurst threw herself under that horse, I don’t think voting for David Cameron and his spare bedroom tax was really what she had in mind…

Apparently generation Y are apathetic and lazy where politics is concerned. I for one disagree. So I ask, politicians, lords and ladies, lend me your ears! (See, we do learn things at university, I just quoted Shakespeare!) Here is my three point plan:

1. Lowering Tuition Fees – ‘Lining your own pockets’ I hear you say? Well, whilst the idea of being 40 grand in debt until im one hundred and three doesn’t exactly leave me jumping for joy, I’m really thinking beyond my own finances.

   If you lend half a million students (based on average yearly applicants x3 years they’ll be studying – contrary to Michael Gove’s belief, you don’t have to be Korean to do maths) £27,000 for fees, plus £9,000 maintenance, then you’re looking at…I took a break to do this sum on my phone calculator and it couldn’t display the answer because the figure was so big it wouldn’t fit on my screen!

   So basically, the government is in so much debt, Nokia can’t even comprehend it. If more realistic fees were charged, say, just enough to cover the cost of the degree, it would be more likely to be paid back, decreasing the deficit.

   Me and my friends worked out that even if we’re in jobs earning £40,000 a year, we’ll still never pay everything back before the 30 year deadline and it’ll be wiped out, so a majority of students are actually making a profit. And that’s if we can even get jobs to pay anything back, which brings me onto my next point…

2. Stop Raising the Retirement Age – More people are being lent the above mentioned tuition fees because there are a lack of jobs for young people. How is making people work until they’re 87 going to help that?!

   I work in a guitar shop lifting heavy boxes up and down stairs. What are they going to do? Install a Stanna-Stairlift with a special guitar shaped platform?

   Elderly folk should be at home with a nice cup of tea watching countdown, not zimmering on up and down the aisles of a factory. They’re not built for that! And to top it all off, they wouldn’t even be able to get to work for free because the government are trying to take away their free buspasses!

   And finally, step three…

3. Learn to answer a question – Dancing around the subject like a chorus member in West Side Story really doesn’t count. Neither does telling me how shit Nick Clegg is. I mean it’s true, Nick Clegg is shit, but it’s common knowledge, we don’t need reminding…

When said elderly people come and ask questions about their pensions and buspasses, there is a conversational system in place for you to answer those questions. It’s called adjacency pairs. Sacks and Shegloff wrote some papers on it, they’re really quite good.

And how do I know this, I hear you ask?

BECAUSE I’M PAYING NINE THOUSAND POUNDS FOR SOMEBODY TO TELL ME TO READ THOSE PAPERS UNDER YOU’RE MOTHERFLIPPING GOVERNMENT

That will be all.

No need to vote for me all at once.

Faye