Eleventh entry.

A blog is a platform for complaining about things. To that end, here is my latest letter of complaint, from a vast archive of written grievances:

Dear Covent Garden Soup Company,

Last week, in possibly my most misguided endeavor to date, I purchased your latest soup of the month; baked potato with cheese and beans.

Blinded by hunger, I tricked myself into thinking the soup would be delicious; a wholesome and convenient substitute to an otherwise time consuming meal.

Upon opening the carton, I immediately became aghast at what I saw. Dull in colour and texture, I could not erase imagery of cat sick from my mind.

Regardless, I soldiered on, only to discover its bland appearance was matched in flavour. I detected muted tones of potato, and little else. I gave up almost before I had began and threw the soup away.

This experience leads me to offer the Covent Garden company some advice: just because a particular meal tastes delicious, it does not mean it will taste as good blended. I offer some suggestions: a roast dinner, for example, is delectable when constructed from various separate foodstuffs, but combining those elements in a blender will, I can assure you, lead to chaos.

I could list further suggestions to be avoided: fish and chips; a fry up; beef stroganoff. Please note, should you decide to launch any of these ideas for future soups of the month, do contact me to discuss copyright agreements.

This is both a complaint and a cry for help; my oven is broken and I rely upon Covent Garden soups to sustain myself - please do not make this mistake again.

Thanks and best wishes,

Daisy Williams

Tenth entry.

So, I live in London now. Everything is shaping up quite nicely, except for the difficulty in pronouncing my home town, due to my ungainly Northern accent.  Someone spray painted the word ‘glock’ on the side of my house the night I moved in, too; perhaps to indicate a battle ground for gang warfare, or perhaps to demonstrate the poor artistic capabilities of the vandals of Plaistow. Incidentally, Plaistow is an absolute piss stain on the pants of London, a place where pie and eel shops still actually exist and Kappa tracksuits are widely recognised as fashionable attire.

I had high expectations of Notting Hill Carnival over the recent bank holiday. But alas, instead of dutty wining my way into the hearts and minds of the London public, I embraced the Carnival spirit fully by becoming a victim of crime. My purse was stolen in the urine soaked alley of a “two pound a piss” portaloo, accounting the blame mostly to the person who stole it, but slightly to my penchant for Red Stripe and small girl’s bladder.

As my purse disappeared into a crowd of a thousand nameless faces; my identity washed away in a sea of tears, I clung to the thought that this was my baptism of fire, and surely from this moment, the only way was up.

During my time here I have acquired myself an almost-stalker after a stranger lifted my details off a flat sharing website. I also had a celebrity sighting in Stratford; I have been told it was two ‘stars’ of The Only Way is Essex, but I will ashamedly acknowledge my ignorance on the matter. It has also emerged that the dishwasher I have always longed for is harbouring a dark secret: a mouse. I have yet to see him hiding behind it since, but I am watching and waiting in anticipation.

But on a brighter note, in the words of Brian Butterfield, everything is increbildle otherwise. I’m almost certain I have a king size bed, the buskers here play the violin instead of the penny whistle like at home, and I have a housemate who shares the same passion for sweetcorn as I. Swings and roundabouts. 

Ninth entry.

I’ve just come back from a holiday in Greece with the family. Skiathos to be precise. I was glad to see that there was enough food for us guests, unlike one bright-spark Brit had expressed concern upon the televisual news.

Before the 2009 financial crisis, Greece had some of the lowest suicide rates in the world. There was a 40% rise in the number of suicides in the first half of 2010 alone, according to the Health Ministry.

My Brother offered some useful insight into the situation.

“The worst thing about Greece is that you have a shower, and then you get sweaty and have to have another shower.”

He was right; I was sweaty for quite a lot of the time. But this was held back from the holiday feedback form, for I had plenty of reasons to be cheerful during my stay.

Lady Gaga’s yacht was rumoured to be lurking along the cost, I ate kebabs on almost a daily basis and I got to kill mosquitoes in my room with a copy of the highway code every night.

And whilst I have been living it up in Liverpool for the past few months, drinking only from plastic cups and eating crisps lying down, the time has come for returning home to Wales for a while, with a healthy measure of self-improvement once again.

There still remains an aching part of me that wants to regress back to simpler times; to eat play dough and put lego up my nose and bum, but this cannot happen, as I have to go to London, for a job that I went and git. In International journalism. With a human rights charity. What luck!

As excited as I am to move to another new city, I’ll miss my dog, Oscar, who has a penchant for eating the contents of sanitary bins and is adorable in a completely disgusting sort of way.

Following his return from dog concentration camp (kennels), he has returned a slimline version of his once curvaceous self and stinking of piss. Incidentally, whilst dogs take delight in rolling in the faeces of others, they do not appreciate having to live in their own.

Once vivacious and charismatic, he has a subdued, faraway look behind the eyes. It’s as though he’s reluctant to remember the past, perhaps akin to doggy Vietnam, or like if you asked Rose to talk about Jack in Titanic, but then replaced them with dogs.

Perhaps I should send him to the next summit debate; to put things into perspective for the Greeks...

Eighth entry.

I signed on today. At the job centre. Why they have to put job centres in the worst possible places, I don’t know; it really takes the fun out of my career sabbatical.

I ended up getting a bit lost, so had to spend half of my 6.78 daily entitlement on a black cab, but I suppose at least I arrived in style.

The job centre seems to be full of tracksuit clad ladies with their matching velour babies, and Eastern European men hunting for redemption following benefit refusal, which drove me to realise why the front door was manned by bouncers not out of place at a house of ill-repute.

As well as the kerfuffle, I was followed some of the way home by two boys on bikes, who wished for my number and were willing to see past my refusal.

My normal approach to this inconvenience would be to deliver a swift serving of justice in the form of a head butt, but one boy was wearing a fireman’s uniform, who I can almost guarantee was not a fireman.

This got me to contemplating; perhaps he has killed a member of the emergency services for his outfit, or is a serial arsonist using the uniform as a clever reuse.

Whatever his game was, I thought it best to avoid starting a fight in Toxteth; I am only 5”3 and three quarters, and I couldn’t reap all the delicious benefits of the dole, should I start beef on the very same road...

Seventh entry.

A brief list of things I hate.

Olives.

Novelty cufflinks.

Small dogs in clothes.

‘Princess on board’ car signs.

Malnourished cats lurking in alleyways in foreign countries.

Non-touch hand soap dispensers.

Morbid holiday reading; the sheer volume of child abuse novels found in the hotel book exchange. Examples: Please, Daddy, No; Daddy’s Little Earner; Sickened: The Memoir of a Munchausen by Proxy Childhood.

Slow walkers.

The lone sock lurking in my wash basket, pining for its partner.

Making any form of decision.

Novelty/comedy/ironic geek-chic, non-prescription glasses.

Extreme informal contraction; combining two words that don’t quite mean the same thing, eg: guesstimate.

People who use impossible percentages; 2000%; 1000001% etc.

Cars emblazoned with Christian fish symbols.

Natalie Cassidy.

Sixth entry.

So here we are; university is over forever and I’ve been free of coursework for two whole weeks. What to do now is a measure I’ve considered carefully, culminating in slipping gently into an emotional coma.

After piecing together the fragmented remains of my mental wellbeing, I have realised this is a time for celebration, rather than fear.

I can now spend time focusing upon measures for self-improvement; taking up trapeze lessons, moving my clothes from the floor back into the wardrobe, performing pelvic floor exercises and such like.

For many of you, ontheblog has probably become gospel and I can only offer my sincere apologies for those who have lacked sleep or contemplated suicide since its demise. You may also notice that my last promise to you was to explain the work placement process.

This is obviously old news by now, but I can say that I went to The Independent on Sunday in London and have now returned a better person than most, after discovering my inner big-city twat.

Incidentally, I have a real life job interview back in London soon. Exciting as it may be, living on one’s own in a new city is a daunting prospect. I’m happy to spend some of my time curled up with a Mills and Boon novel or two, but what would happen were I to remain eternally friendless?

I’m fearful I could die alone, having a fall on a floor slippery with knitting needles and cat urine, or choking to death after forgetting to remove the film lid from my microwave meal for one.

But this is all unnecessary speculation. For now, I shall take things one step at a time, devising a life strategy and compiling lists of things I must/want/have yet to do. Carpe diem.  

Fifth entry.

Oh hello. It’s only me; don’t be alarmed. Blogging has gently lulled, but then, this is the case with many elements of my life. The dissertation for example; swept under the carpet like an illegitimate, bastard love-child, spawned from a night of debauchery and regret. Yes; tuck it away in the depths of my soul and hope for the best; that’ll do the trick. Probably.

 The reason for the cease-fire on all things learning, is that I am now on work placement; like a real life human. The prospect of being one of them ‘growed-ups’  fills me with joy and fear simultaneously.  Joyful to have pennies to spend; fearful of said pennies being earned through my own hard work and not thrust upon me by the authorities that be. Delighted to have the world at my finger tips; distressed I may have to travel alone and become circumcised or head of a cartel, or worse. Ambitious to become a high-flying journalist; concerned that, well, I may just not.

But on a brighter note; mother is happy with the chickens, and they seem to be happy with her. She addresses them as “my girls,” which I strongly object to, but then they are rather handsome. Aside from all the neck scabs, of course. Whilst temperamental in their refusal to lay eggs in adverse weather conditions; ie- rain, humidity, fog, they produce delicious embryo matter. With the yellowiest yolks, too...It’s like having a sunshine omelette each morning.

However. Considering that this is supposed to be a journalism-related blog (arf), I should explain the work placement process; how it shaped me as a writer; how it made me feel within my inner self, and so on. For now though, it’s back to the daily grind. Pleasantly surprised to find a recent article of mine on the ‘Times of India’ website. Despite my joy; can forecast a future of losing my mind to cyber-bullying, googling myself daily in the darkness of a locked wardrobe...