Tag Archive: journeying


I love the nightlife.

OK, so one..or two glasses of wine make me roaring drunk now, apparently. As in, so drunk I pretend cushions are beards, dance like a possessed creature to songs I can’t remember the lyrics to and generally…entertain? Be glad there are no photos from last night. BE GLAD.

I saw two foxes and five rabbits on the train journey home this morning. It was delightful and I think I just turned into Beatrix Potter, please excuse me.

I helped an elderly lady with her suitcase. I feel awful about feeling so good about this. Before you go thinking that I’m a nice person, please consider the following: would I be posting this if I did this sort of thing all the time, instead of doing it occasionally and believing myself to be a saint on those rare days? Exactly.

Less than a week until I get to move into my lovely new house and tension here is cranked up so high it physically hurts my neck muscles. No less than two people talk at each other at once. People raise their voices to be heard, prompting the others to do it too. Really fucking annoying rhetorical questions fly over the dinner plates and hit me in the throat so the food gets stuck and make me feel like there’s an acidic pool churning in my guts. Whenever more people come into the house I am bombarded with the same queries at least three times. I have to retreat upstairs and scratch at the wall to wind down. I’m stressed. I’m surprised my hair isn’t falling out in great long ropes of frizz.

I analysed my heart today. I’m not AS obsessed with David Tennant as I was this time last year. There is hope for me. I have downsized from two calendars to one.

My neck hurts.

I have nothing more interesting to say, except did you know that ‘Adiemus’ isn’t sung by Enya, but by Miriam Stockley?

Fact.

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Have some music whilst you read:

Actual content time!

I want to get back into writing again. I went through a period in my teens during which I churned out a plethora of what I affectionately term shit poetry. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t written about faeces.

After realising I was awful at my “art” and so very,very angsty into the bargain I gave up almost entirely. Well, apart from creative writing assignments that would actually gain me marks (I got a first with one of my pieces last term – maybe I’ll stick it up here at some point). Now I’m aching to get back into it properly.

This realisation brings with it a filthy little revelation.

I enjoy lurking on ‘Worthy of Publishing’ and dredging up poorly-written, as-good-as-plotless pieces of fiction on purpose. It’s extremely therapeutic. I feel better about my abilities because of it.

So, now that you know I’m a dirty little schadenfreudette, let us proceed with the point of today’s enthralling tale. An alarmingly large number of these literary abominations begin with the following sentence. Bar my quotations marks, the average standard of grammar is included for realism and your entertainment:

“it was a cold dark night . suddenly i heard something outside my window”

And I got to thinking, ‘What would I write after that?’ And instead of quaintly terrible shadows on the walls and bumps in the night, this ridiculous piece of silliness came into being:

‘I leapt out of bed and charged at the window, seizing the large brass fireplace poker on the way. With a shriek like a hellbound demon, I wrenched open the window and jabbed the poker out into the thick evening gloom.

The result was a cry of anguish, followed by a rustle of leaves and the dull sound of a body colliding with solid ground. Gingerly, I edged out onto my balcony. Squinting in the gloom, I peered over the stone ledge.

“What the HELL was that for, Juliet?” angrily demanded Romeo, nursing a black eye.’


…Yeahhhhhh, I need much practise before I start writing fiction for real. I have no shame in stating that I’d like to write as part of my career one day. However, I feel I use TOO MANY DAMNED COMMAS, and thus, I will continue to scribble and underline, to type and to delete, to save and save as, for the forseeable future.

Now, for the promised bit about the train: why are rail journeys undertaken on Sundays always at least an hour longer? It’s highly irritating. But worth it, for I will see friends again, and consume the fermented grape until my vision is poor and my personal space bubble is no more. Good, sweet times.

The only other really interesting thing I stumbled across today was this wonderful set of failed romances. I’m a sucker for such things.

And if you’ve never heard that phrase before, you have missed out on a treat.

(I heard an English teacher say it once. Back when I thought ‘arse’ was a swear word, along with ‘git’, and thus the reaction was a total gasp of horror. Somebody put the lolocopter into gear.)

This is going to be such a word vomit-y post, hold onto to your hats. I’ve had this up on my screen all day, adding little bits to it. If the chronological order of anything doesn’t make sense, you now know why.

Hola to everyone who’s meandered over from Facebook, ja ja *waves*.

I hath pictures! Pictures of Italy, no less!I took around 500 photos in one week, so I’m filtering through and getting the fun/entertainingly informative ones out of the bunch, as opposed to 300+ of scenery, landscapes, waterscapes, elderly buildings and plants.

First children, let us conduct a study into Kristina’s Patented Pose of Complete and Utter Awkwardness:

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I was taking this guy’s picture in Verona when he stepped down off that lamp post base and walked over to me. With my mother gleefully encouraging him, he led me away and made me get up on the base before covering my hand with whiteface and gold glitter as he kissed it. I went scarlet. People took photos.

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Gondolas in Venice; all of them are slightly banana-shaped, as this keeps them moving forwards. Since the gondolieri only row on one side of the boat, if the boat was completely straight, it would go round in circles. All gondolas are painted black nowadays, to commemorate the black gondolas that carried plague victims to isolation islands such as Poveglia. (Google it, especially if you’re interested in paranormal activity. It’s supposed to be one of the most haunted places in the world.)

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Dude was just sitting around, so I took a sneaky photo whilst passing under the bridge in the gondola.

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Pillars marking the official entrance to the Piazza San Marco, or St. Mark’s Square. The winged lion is the sign of St. Mark, who wasn’t originally Venice’s patron saint – they nicked him from Alexandria, Egypt. People doomed to be executed were led between the pillars to the square, which is kind of why I took the photo in the first place. Locals won’t walk between the pillars as they believe it’ll give them bad luck.

DSCN16909,000ft above sea level at the Pordoi Pass in the Dolomites.  Air was thin. Sun was bright. And, partially unrelated, I have lost 17lbs in weight since coming home from uni, and I think it shows fairly nicely in this picture.

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The Scala Contarini del Bovolo in Venice – ‘Scala’ means staircase, Contarini was the name of the family who owned the house, and ‘bovolo’ means snail. The Snail Staircase was only a servants’ exit and entrance…I’d do all sorts of unsavoury things to have it attached to my house. Inspired by a certain Leaning Tower.

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Unhappy lion pleases me immensely.

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House on the Lago di Garda – if anyone has the means to buy this for me, please do.

You know what I really hate? On the lake, there are loads of ducks. LOADS of them. And people were taking photos of them, as if they’d never seen ducks before in their lives. What sort of person –

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Oh yeah.