The top whatever (un)romantic songs of indiedom

Milky Wimpshake – Dialling Tone

A close call between this one and ‘I want to be seen in Public with You’ and ‘I Love You, You Weirdo’! But Dialling Tone wins. Because it says ‘Your Boyfriend is so dull, he was probably born on Hull’ and ‘I even have my own record label, so come and sit at my table!’. I can relate to the latter. Only that when I did have my own record label, nobody did want to ‘come and sit at my table’ in that sense! I love Milky Wimpshake!!! They have a knack of putting words to the indie awkardness like nobody else. No really, they do (ok, I’m a bit pissed as I write this, but still …).

Dialling Tone is about wanting to phone someone and hanging up before they pick up the phone. Must have been written before mobiles and the ‘dial 1471’ option. Otherwise ‘they’ know you phoned.

Peptone – Candidate for Wax

I admit this is fairly obscure. It was on a Snakebite City compilation. It has a line in it that goes ‘and you smoke another kingsize as you wait for the phone’. Having done this sort of thing many times, I can relate to that one. I listened to this song a lot when I was waiting for this guy to call. This was over a decade ago. I did go out with said go for a short while, but the fact he was in a Death Metal band meant it was not going to happen. I could not take the embarrassment of having a boyfriend that dressed like fucking Kiss onstage, complete with black and white face makeup and a hell of a lot of leather. Erm, no, I don’t think so!!

I Wish I Was Him – Kathleen Hannah

Yes, that is her of Bikini Kill fame. The song is about Evan Dando. Obviously. And how he obtains his records via mailorder and how he is just so so cool. Its about finding someone so amazing you actually want to be them (I’d rather be Kathleen Hannah than Evan Dando actually, I hear from reliable sources he’s a bit of an arse!).

Marmor Stein und Eisen Bricht – Drafi Deutscher

Drafi Deutscher was imprisoned for exposing himself to children. Nice. Still, I kinda grew up with this song translates to ‘Marble, Stone and Iron breaks, but our love does not’. Odd, I know. Very German.). This was my parents wedding song (yikes!) and my dad played it in the car all the time. It really grew on me, and when I am feeling a bit down/silly I howl along to this at full volume.

Wenn du mich nicht willst – Lassie Singers

Sorry, another German one. Lassie Singers are a vaguely feminist pop/punk group that have been going under various pseudonyms for ages. I like them a lot. This one is about the conundrum that people only seem to like you when you don’t like them (treat them mean, keep them keen, I suppose) and what a shit idea it is to play along with this kind of headfuck. How very right they are. This sort of activity is very stupid indeed and should be avoided. If you have to resort to playing mindgames with people, it’s best not to bother at all.

Will You Still Care – The Crocketts

You see, I was intending on marrying the guy from the Crocketts when I was, well, younger. He has a missing tooth and is kinda cool. I saw him on the tube a little while ago. I had met him ages ago, but somehow I don’t think he remembered that. So I did not say hello when I saw him on the tube. Instead I grinned at him (he was obviously on a way to a gig, for he was lugging a guitar and amp around and got off at Camden), heart pounding (I still have a Crocketts poster on my wall. It marks the release of the Nintendo Phallacy EP and is quite tatty now), heart pounding like mad (I felt like I was a starstruck teenage again. Whoops) and praying to God he would get off soon before I made an idiot of myself.

Anyways, that song! It’s the one that goes ‘will you still care for me – I DON’T FUCKING THINK SO!’. This has helped me get over many a … is it wrong to call them boys now? It’s the sheer angriness of it (and the fact it has the word FUCK! In it!) that makes this such a fabulous tune.

Connie Francis – Schoener Fremder Mann

Another German one. Even though Connie Francis is blatantly not German. She did release quite a few songs in German though. And those made it into the family car’s glove box. My dad used to play this over and over again on the ten hour car journeys to Italy we did every year. Somehow, they got etched int my brain. This one is about beautiful strangers (note to self: don’t write ANYTHING when you’re somewhat tipsy on cider) and rather corny. But I do love her bizarre American accent. I remember the whole family singing along to this in the car (this one and other one about the little Italians – that one was highly non-PC!). Happy memories indeed.

Let’s Kiss and Listen To Bis - Mikrofisch

Ok, I shouldn’t drone on about my friend’s band. Silvia deserves better than being mentioned in some kind of bizarre drunken list of songs. BUT!! This song encompasses the heyday of music perfectly. Back when I did not have a real job. Back when I still did fanzines and things. Back when I listened to Bis A LOT. Admittedly, I don’t think I ever kissed anyone with Bis playing in the background (I probably could have done though, I went out with quite a few people who liked Bis!), but it’s a nice idea. This is one of those indie-reference song – ‘keep Sparky’s Dream alive and dance to Teenage Fanclub’. Awww. Bless. The it goes ‘hold on to the past and let it last forever …’. I wish I could. But I can’t. The second Bis reunion gig got cancelled because they didn’t sell enough tickets …. Dammit!! *I* sure had a ticket!!! Why cancel??

I’m pretty sure this song is some kind of pisstake or at least ironic. Still, when I first heard it I wept for joy.

Me and You vs The World – Space

Yes. I know. Space are not cool. I do love this song though. It’s very Bonnie and Clyde. Some sort of boy/girl robbery gone horribly wrong. And it’s quite catchy. So what’s not to like?

Things nobody seems to ever teach you

Washing machines

Did anyone ever take you to one side and explained to you how to wash your clothes without help? Me neither. A whirlwind of trial and error followed. I was 17 and had just moved out from my parents with a friend. We had a washing machine and no idea what to do with it. We settled on ‘everything at 40’ in the end. I still wash everything at 40 – unless I am feeling daring and go for a boilwash. And then realise that yes, the colour of the red top still runs after ten years and I have grey underwear once again. Why is there no crash course for this sort of thing?

Dusting

I have never managed this successfully with a duster. All it seems to do is spread more dust around. This seems rather pointless.

Making beds

Now I know that in theory you kind of flatten or fold the duvet and stick the pillow somewhere at the top. Only to then unravel it all again when you want to go to sleep. What’s the point?

Bleeding radiators

It’s cold. The radiators don’t seem to work. There’s always a male friend helpfully advising you to ‘bleed the radiators’. How the hell does that work? What will I do with all this blood? Is the blood boiling? Is that how they keep warm?

Cleaning windows properly

Spraying on windowcleaner and then wiping the contraption does not seem to work. Windows are left streaky and look no different to how they looked before you got started. How are you supposed to do this?

Excel

I don’t know anyone who has ever been trained on Excel before they used it for the first time. My first time with Excel was at a temping agency interview and I made it up as I went along. Having spoken to quite a few other people, it seems we’re all in the same boat. Nobody actually has any idea what they’re doing.

Look interested

An important skill! But how? Think of something interesting and you will instantly look interested even if you’re not. That doesn’t quite seem to work. Why not have courses to prepare you for those dull parties and boring conversations you will be forced to have in later life?

Things nobody seems to ever teach you

Washing machines

Did anyone ever take you to one side and explained to you how to wash your clothes without help? Me neither. A whirlwind of trial and error followed. I was 17 and had just moved out from my parents with a friend. We had a washing machine and no idea what to do with it. We settled on ‘everything at 40’ in the end. I still wash everything at 40 – unless I am feeling daring and go for a boilwash. And then realise that yes, the colour of the red top still runs after ten years and I have grey underwear once again. Why is there no crash course for this sort of thing?

Dusting

I have never managed this successfully with a duster. All it seems to do is spread more dust around. This seems rather pointless.

Making beds

Now I know that in theory you kind of flatten or fold the duvet and stick the pillow somewhere at the top. Only to then unravel it all again when you want to go to sleep. What’s the point?

Bleeding radiators

It’s cold. The radiators don’t seem to work. There’s always a male friend helpfully advising you to ‘bleed the radiators’. How the hell does that work? What will I do with all this blood? Is the blood boiling? Is that how they keep warm?

Cleaning windows properly

Spraying on windowcleaner and then wiping the contraption does not seem to work. Windows are left streaky and look no different to how they looked before you got started. How are you supposed to do this?

Excel

I don’t know anyone who has ever been trained on Excel before they used it for the first time. My first time with Excel was at a temping agency interview and I made it up as I went along. Having spoken to quite a few other people, it seems we’re all in the same boat. Nobody actually has any idea what they’re doing.

Look interested

An important skill! But how? Think of something interesting and you will instantly look interested even if you’re not. That doesn’t quite seem to work. Why not have courses to prepare you for those dull parties and boring conversations you will be forced to have in later life?

Children of a pretend revolution

Both of my parents are psychologists. Dear God!, I hear you cry. Both of them? By way of background information, I did not spend my childhood in group therapy. Yes, I had an awful lot of ‘educational’ toys and yes, my family talks an awful lot and yes, it’s all rather liberal and democratic.

So far, so good. But one thing I was always encouraged to do is speak my mind. And that it’s perfectly acceptable to talk back at people if they say something you don’t agree with. Or if they do something you don’t like. And yes, the latter did get me into an awful lot of trouble at school.

Another thing I learned is that injustice is not something to be tolerated. Which is why I did give that guy a primary school a black eye because he picked on my friend for being shit at basketball.

Fastforward twenty years. I am beginning to realise that the world does not work like that any more. Particularly not in a working environment. It seems to be ‘put up and shut up!’. But what if you think something is fundamentally wrong. You KNOW it’s wrong. You KNOW it’s not fair and you would really like to throw a mean left hook at the offending party. Only that you’re not allowed to. Because you’re at work. Some people are higher up than others. And you happen to sit somewhere at the bottom of the pile, ready to be dumped upon from a variety of angles. Last time I checked, ‘doormat’ was not part of my job description. And if I wanted to b part of a group email bunfight, I would join an debate group for masochists. I certainly don’t need this kind of activity at work.

You try to speak up and get duly brushed under the carpet. Take the moral high ground! Yeah right, the moral swamp, more like. And I am tiring of sitting in said swamp. I really am. And why can’t I rise from the swamp? Because ‘you can’t do that!’. I know this may sound pompous, but I was under the impression I was an individual of free will and could do what I want, as long as I don’t hurt anyone. That doesn’t seem to be the case. Somebody somewhere along the lines lied to me big time. Doing the right thing does not get you anywhere. Neither does trying to be helpful. And what’s all this bollocks about ‘going the extra mile’ about? You go the extra mile, somebody will lay out another three miles of broken glass you can then crawl over in your own time. Thanks, guys, really appreciate it.

This leaves me and my naïve believe that all you got to do is be nice to people and they’ll be nice also out in the cold. And the theory that working hard will be rewarded doesn’t rung true either any more. If you happen to the in the civil service, you can’t have any sort of payrise, so instead they bleed you dry. Particularly, if you foolishly agree to do every last task someone is trying to foist upon you. Sorry, I don’t live to work, I work to live. I do not want to be loosing sleep over work matters, thank you very much.

So change jobs! Hm, but somehow I suspect it wont be any different anywhere else. Because everything in the working world seems to be upside down these days. Or maybe it’s just me and I am being stupid for seriously believing what my parents drummed into me for all these years was nothing but a big fat lie.

More on the Facebook malaise

It’s hard to imagine now that I once checked my Myspace several times a day. I haven’t checked my Myspace for months now, because every time I do I have a message along the lines of ‘We looked at your profile and thought you’d dig our tunes. We are a trash metal band from Usbekistan …’. Yes, Myspace seems to be music only these days. Which is nice. If I want to listen to some bands that haven’t got any records in the shop just yet. Annoyingly, most of them have disabled the download function, so I would have to sit on Myspace all the time if I wanted to play a demo on repeat. Ho-hum.

Cue Facebook. The supposed grownup option. The grandmother of all Bebos. I gather Bebo is for chavs and kids who like to play with knives/enjoy underage sex rather a lot.

When I first signed up for Facebook, I vowed it would not be like my Myspace and I would only ever add people I actually wanted to add. People I already knew from the outside world (yes, there is a world out there. Hard to believe, but there is). I now have 94 friends on Facebook. Some of them are dormant. Like terrorist sleepers. They lay in waiting, only to suddenly ‘throw a sheep at you’ out of nowhere or try and coax you into a round of ‘Texas Hold’Em’. I keep meaning to rid myself of these. But can’t quite do it. Although they won’t even notice I deleted them. A Facebook Kill is a silent kill. So far, I only disposed of one person on Facebook. This was duly noticed, I re-added. Temporarily. Then I went for the full delete-and-block option. I win.

One thing I do have reservations about is work colleagues on Facebook. With Myspace, it didn’t matter, really because your profile is up for grabs for the world regardless (unless you pretend to be under age, at which point they filter out grownups eg everyone you know). On Facebook, nobody needs to see what I’m up to outside work. Not that I’m up to a hell of a lot, but still. There’s work life and there is life life. Needless to say, my ‘no work on Facebook’ rule soon began to crumble. Next thing I know, half my team is on there. I do draw the line at work people I don’t really know though. What’s the point in having people on there I hardly talk to in the first place. Yeah, sorry I ignored your request. Twice.

Then there is the groups. Joining seems like a good idea at the time, but after the 10th reminder message about a clubnight the other side of the country, you begin to tire of those. And, let’s face it, in most cases, the notification that ‘… has joined IF 25 PEOPLE JOIN THIS GROUP I WILL CHANGE MY NAME TO STINKBOMB’ is the first and the last you will ever hear of said group.

And don’t get me started on the Application junkies. These tend to be the people that greatly enjoy forwarding emails that say ‘send this to 10 people and your luck will change’ or ‘check out these toddlers in bumblebee suits and fairywings’ and other adorable headings. These people will insist you take a test to find out which Disney Princess you are, they will Superpoke you (despite the fact you don’t even have the goodamn SUPERPOKE! Application!), they will add you to their bizarre Top Trumps-esque entourage of supposed friends and, worst of all, hunt you down in the ‘who is online right now’ bit somewhere at the bottom of the page (if anyone knows how to disable the thing, do let me know!). There is no getting away from them. And you can’t even message them to stop this malarkey because their profile will be so cluttered with slow-loading applications (egg hatching, virtual Christmas trees at Easter time, all sorts of kerrazy cartoon versions of them, online fishtanks, entire cocktail bars …) that it will take about 48 hours to appear in the first place. And no, I DO NOT NEED THE PETROL HEAD APPLICATION IN MY LIFE! I don’t even have a fucking driving license!!!!

Still, it’s easy to get all obsessive compulsive over Facebook. I even check mine on the mobile (ahem). Despite the fact nothing ever happens and all I do is delete messages from promoters whose nights I will never go to and decline invitations to aforementioned far-flung gigs by bands I never even heard of. Or write one-liners that aren’t funny on people’s walls. Or saying Happy Birthday to people I have never even met. Or people whose birthday I would have definitely forgotten if it wasn’t for the handy Facebook reminder. If you want to be really crafty, send them a text to say Happy Birthday. It’s then less obvious you found the birthday on Facebook and they might even think you actually remembered their birthdays because you are such a kind and caring individual.

But. I am sure something else will come along soon.

Rock Lobster

Don’t you hate it when this happens? You’ve done everything there is to do, you’ve even taken some herbal sleeping tablets, everything is ready for the next day, you haven’t played computergames all evening, neither have you been watching too much television. Heck I even own a can of lavender spray. All that’s left to do is sleep, so you get to wake up the next day, nice and refreshed, like a normal person.

10.30pm. You’re all set. Pillows are arranged, gumshield in your mouth (quite disgusting, but at least it stops you from grinding your teeth into calcium flour over night), phone on charger, lights are off. Great. But why is it suddenly too cold in here? Let me find another jumper. Or maybe I shouldn’t. It’s August, after all. No, I think I will find a jumper. Maybe another duvet as well. Two jumpers and three duvets later, what is this now? Why is my foot itching? On second toughts, this pillow isn’t to comfortable, after all. Let me just quickly re-arrange all this. Right, that’s better. Oh, maybe I should go to the loo again. Nah, maybe I should not. Dammit, I will go.

11.30pm. Meanwhile back in my groggy brain, the B52s have launched into a splendid rendition of Rock Lobster. That song is about nine minutes long and they keep on repeating it. Don’t get me wrong, I like this song a lot. But not right now! Why doesn’t brain radio have an off switch? LOBSTER! DOWN! DOWN! DOWN! Here comes the jellyfish! Aoooh-aah-ooh!

12.30pm. Wide awake now. Maybe another cigarette will help. Lights on. Find fags. Find lighter. Find ashtray. Whilst I’m at it, why not start reading the most boring book I own (The British Horse Society’s comprehensive guide to stable management) and have a little read. ROCK LOBSTER! ROCK LOBSTER! I really am sick of that tune by now. IT WASN’T A ROCK! IT WAS ROCK LOBSTER! Stub out cigarette, put book away. Lights off again.

1.30am. Now it’s too warm. I am cooking under an array of duvets. This wasn’t a good idea. Let me take some of these off again. No, too many. Too cold now. Somebody do something! I have to get up again at 7. Supposedly, an adult needs at least eight hours sleep in order to function properly. What if I stop functioning at work? This isn’t good. I could come in for 10 I suppose. Alarm now changed to 8. Good. No need to panic now. … AND EVERYBODY HAD! MATCHING TOWELS! ROCK LOBSTER! I really need t sort out my dire financial situation. Maybe I could get another credit card. Only that they probably won’t let me have one. Hm. Why is it that I am earning more money than I ever had, but I’m still broke all the time? I really must do something about that. Right now would be good. PEOPLE ON THE PLAYA! HAVING FUUUUN!

2.30am. Ok, this isn’t funny any more. I now want to kill the B52s and their stupid LOBSTER! ROCK LOBSTER! Maybe pony Angel is scared in her stable. There’s lightning in the sky now. I hope she’s ok. I wish I had a car. Then I could hop in my car and go and see if she’s okay. ROCK! LOBSTER! DOWN! DOWN! For goodness sake, why am I still awake? The 10 o’clock start tomorrow won’t really cut it any more either. I’ll be a walking wreck. Again. I wish I’d have a better reason to be a walking wreck. If I’d been out clubbing, at least I’d have something to talk about. HERE COME THE STARFISH!!

3.30am. The last resort. Swinny! Swinny is a little toy guinea pig I had since I was a kid. He looks a little worse for wear, but at least I have trained myself to not sleep whilst clutching a cuddly toy any more a few years ago. He still lives in the bedroom though. Is that so wrong? For God’s sake it’s now 4am, I am sniffing a toy guinea pig and am swearing under my breath and am quite angry with myself for being such a loser. Tomorrow will be better. ROCK LOBSTER! OOOOOOH! ROCK LOBSTER!

The Antisocial Socialite

Meeting groups of people I don’t know fills me with dread. Particularly, when the only thing group members and I have in common is that we happen to know the same person. It was easier before the smoking ban. At least you could sit in the pub chainsmoking when you didn’t know what else to do. I am famously bad at starting conversations and used to kick off with openers like ‘gee! Get rid off that beard!’ or ‘I don’t like your shoes!’. NOT popular. I have almost stopped doing this by now and frequently catch myself uttering the dreaded ‘so what do you do?’. Not great either, is it? Particularly when everyone else is already blind drunk and you instantaneously look like a total bore. I have no idea how many hands I have shaken in my life and how many times I said ‘nice to meet you’ when I proceeded to forget peoples’ names in seconds.

I can’t stand this ‘walking into a busy party where I only know one person’ feeling. I am incapable of chitchat and find it somewhat tricky to laugh along with perfect strangers about whose jokes I know nothing about. At parties, I actively seek out the few people I already know and follow them around religiously, because I simply cannot face striking up any sort of conversation with anyone else. I am probably terrified of coming across like a complete prat. On the other hand, not talking to anyone is likely to be even more prattish.

I used to be ok walking into a gig on my own. I even made acquaintances that way when I first moved to London and didn’t know anyone. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was ever particularly confident (for overly confident people are the most annoying of all), but I did okay. Somewhere along the lines, something must have backfires spectacularly. I tend to sit there, hiding behind a pintglass, trying to look enthralled at a conversation across the table I can’t even hear properly and pray to God I laugh in all the right places.

Either that, or outright hostility towards the unknown. Everyone is dubious until proven otherwise. Now, that is a very childish attitude to have indeed. It should be the other way round. Innocent until proven guilty.

I don’t even particularly care what people think of me. If I did, my life would have probably ground to an abrupt halt a long time ago, because I never really quite fitted in anywhere. I was always to weird, too honest, not dressed well enough and generally too nerdy. So why the heck can’t I be one of those intant socialites? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be one of those idiotic, hollow-brained ‘social butterflies’, because, quite frankly, I hate people like that. I really do. They epitomise everything I dislike about mankind: an obsession with first impressions, an obsession with looks, pub psychology applied to mannerism, a fake smile and a pathological urge to be everyone’s friend. I don’t want to be everyone’s friend! I honestly do not! I pick my battles and friends very carefully.

So why do I act like I’ve just been attacked with a stun gun when faced with a bunch of people I don’t know? I’m fine with that concept at work. I cannot do it in a social context. As a result I look like some sort of arrogant, aloof prick without meaning to. Great. Fantastic. And it’s getting worse by the minute. I can never think of anything remotely interesting to say and seem to have this pathological need to talk about a) my job or b) where I live. I don’t even like my job and it sure isn’t a job to be proud of. Its actually a pretty darn uncool occupation. I used to drone on about records and gigs to all and sundry. Now I fear this is likely to bore people to tears. And to be honest, it probably would. Nobody cares that I have signed Bis vinyl, that I used t write fanzines and promoted gigs. Nobody wants to know about my record label that folded many moons ago. I feel like a lost has-been sometimes. Thus, probably best not to share these things with anyone any more in the first place. Keep trap shut. Firmly shut.

When I had a few, I can get annoyingly argumentative. That isn’t good either. Nobody want to hear my hostile views about certain genres of music, dreadlocks, overly girlie girls and how society is intrinsically sexist.

Once I met people a few times, it tends to be okay. But these days everything moves so fast that nobody ever gets a second chance it seems.

I suppose I am basically screwed.

School reunion - part two

So the school reunion happened without me. Luckily, I seem to be unable to remove myself from the associated mailing list and received a link to page with 297 pictures of said reunion yesterday.

My god. How glad am I that I didn’t attend? Judging from the pictures, only about 15 people came along. Guess what, I hated 11 out of those 15. With a passion.

The girls haven’t changed at all. The majority of the boys are now either fighting pattern hairloss or weight issues. Or both.

There is also a significant number of wedding rings strategically shoved into a lot of the pictures. Hey, look at me! Fat! Bold! And married! Isn’t it great that even gits like me can find a woman?

Here they are, standing in the boys loos at the old school smoking fags. Just like the old days. And I was relieved to see that the roadpaint ‘Abi 98’ (eg school leavers 98) in the school yard is still there, albeit a bit faded.

One of them even sported his ‘Abi 98’ T-shirt. A hideous white contraption in X-large (thank you, Fruit of the Loom) with a ‘street’ logo on the front and a list of everyone in the class (there was 120 of us, it’s a long list, hence the X-large size) on the back. Adorable.

One of those garments was forced upon me at the time. I boycotted the whole thing. On the school leaving fete, I wore it inside out. This is after I had taken some scissors to the seams. I don’t remember much about this fete, other than being hammered and hurling verbal abuse at quite a lot of people, before slinking off early with my friends.

Much to my delight, some of the people really haven’t aged well. The ‘Mr and Mrs’ of the Class of 98 (yes, those blithering idiots even held a beauty contest) don’t look so good these days. She looks gaunt. His hairline is halfway up his head, but he still insists on wearing his locks in a ponytail. It wasn’t a good look then, it sure isn’t now. I think I prefer having average looks and maintaining them to peaking early and aging fast.

And they’re al pretending to have a blast. I am sure they didn’t. Some of these people hated each other’s guts at school, so why are they suddenly sharing drinks? Presumably a crazy haze of fake nostalgia. Nostalgia about stuff that never happened. About a time that was not that great. The big lie that ‘school days are the best days of your life’. Hell they are! In one trench you have powermad teachers taking out their frustrations on hapless youths. In the other trench you get a bunch of teenagers stabbing each other in the back. Doctors’ kids versus lawyers’ kids versus farmers’ kids. Imagine being a psychologists’ child in the midst of all this. It wasn’t easy.

Still, the whole thing reminded me of ten years ago. It seems like a very long time. I don’t know whether I have changed. So let me dig out the Yearbook of 98, where my flatmate wrote a little description of me.

There’s a picture of the whole class at the front. I have short hair that I’d dyed red. And I am growling at my flatmate. I’m standing between her and my friend Conny. Conny and I lost touch a while ago. I don’t think she coped very well with me leaving the country and started to behave rather strangely, before stopping all contact. Shame, really, I liked her a lot.

Anyways, my profile description. There isn’t a picture because I refused to have one taken. It says …

A day in the life of …

One night, Julia is tortured by a horrible nightmare. She is a geometric ball shape and has to draw a line through herself!
This is accurate. I have always hated maths and certainly despised geometry.

She wakes up and cheers herself up with a healthy portion of indiepop. This can be heard from her room from 7am onwards on a school day. By 7am she is ready to go (once various pink and glittery items have been attached and the hair has been flattened by brute force). This is after she complained yet again that her hair looks like a Playmobile figure.

Damn right it does. Still.

On arrival at school, she obtains a sticky sugary pastry and proceeds to draw on any available surface in biro and markerpen (trousers, books …). To be accurate, she isn’t drawing, she is writing wry, cynical comments on the world. Like when she called a complicated chemical drawing a worldwide tubemap and also mentioned that the whole contraption wasn’t getting us anywhere. She even invented a story to help people remember cell division in biology …

Yes. I remember it well. A ludicrous tale of someone going to the supermarket, making up telephone numbers and eventually turning into a donkey.

Back home, she immediately makes a beeline for the letterbox. Because only a day with mail is a good day. Because she needs at least a letter a day to be able to converse about the truly important things in life (music).

Her profound geographical knowledge (isn’t Hanover near Munich?) didn’t help the phone bill either. Because of this, it’s safer to write. Better check that letterbox again. And again. And Again.

I still do this. Only with emails, texts and social networking days. I get quite frustrated when nobody contacts me.

If there still isn’t a letter, she gets quite annoyed. To fend off total melancholy, she is writing a fanzine (Zosch!) – a one-woman publication in A5 she uses as a weapon in the forced conversion of us philistines.

Suddenly, the phone rings! She is petrified of fires in the home. Where do I put that fag? Simply put it out? No way, that wouldn’t e safe! She swiftly empties the cold contents of her coffeecup into the ashtray and launches into a desperate search for a pair of scissors. Once these are located, the burning fag end is swiftly hacked off and mixed in the with cold coffee, resulting in a fireproof substance. It is now safe to answer the phone in the other room.

Her hamster is currently living in the cupboard, to ensure it’s dark and quiet.
She often gos out in Munich, where she enjoys a good dance in these indie discotheques (requests for dancelessons are taken for: air guitar, indieshuffle, shoegazing, stirring style, hammer style and saw style. Beginners and more experienced participants welcome! Well worth it!).

Nope, I still can’t dance to save my life. I enjoy it though!

Once she got through another exhausting day, she can kick back and gaze at the array of rather younglooking popstars in the posters on her wall (who look like 11 but she swears they’re at least 25!). Asleep at last, she dreams about pink candyfloss, Helly Kitty and London … London … London

… So here I am. In London. So screw the lot of you stupid people from school. I may be perpetually broke. I may find life in the metropolis difficult at times, but … at least I followed my dream. At least I gave it a bloody good go.