For Noph, who got upset at being left out last time and then refused to sit still!

The Boyfriend:

The rowing outing: where the young men calmly rowing their little boat were attacked by a huge monstrous swan. I think the real incident involved an VIII, not a pair... artistic licence and all that

Slightly closer version of the picture above

The Midget:

The midget is small, but she's also at least as scary as the huge monstrous swan!

Rapunzel and her knight in shining armour singing in the shower boy:

Rapunzel in her tower. I've no idea why I call her Rapunzel. It's one of those odd names which you find and then sticks.

Close up of the boy. He should stand up straight!

Do you doodle?

I don’t recall much of the ferry journey. I’m terribly travel sick and so when Miss H suggested I take one of her travel sickness tablets I thought it was an excellent idea. Later research, back in England, a doctor pointed out that these drugs aren’t available in this country. They did however work extremely well. I slept for a solid 12 hours. Did some of my cross-stitch (at about a quarter of the pace of Miss H’s cross-stitching ability) and feasted on the cereal bars and cartons of orange juice we’d brought with us.

At the other side, Esberg in Denmark, I drove off and began my first experience of the ‘wrong’ side of the road whilst reading speed limits in kilometres per hour! The first navigational instruction I was given was a left turn on a road which I’m sure had about six lanes! Ending up in the wrong place, or pointing in the wrong direction terrified me.

We managed to get onto the dual carriageway and drive for half an hour before coming off at a service station. It was McDonald’s for coffee – ‘Fika’. This Swedish word means something like coffee and cake break, but makes the Germans giggle. Of course, that didn’t go entirely smoothly, but at least we had a supply of milk in the car so my inability to order wasn’t a complete fail.

As a rule, when we were driving, it was raining. In Scandinavia, you keep your headlights on for a reason. The stop for the night was Odense – our first parking meter. With four currencies in our purses, and only English, French and German between us, we weren’t ideal for using Danish parking meters. Luckily, a kind local gave us her parking ticket, which covered us for the hour we took to unpack the car into the youth hostel (we decided on a full reorganise and repack, which meant unloading three weeks worth of luggage). Luckily, not too far away there was a free car park.

Have you any experience driving on the wrong side of the road?

http://omonaikee.blogspot.com/

—

I however shall be going to bed.

“Is it nearly bedtime?”

It’s 8.55pm. I’ve been working all day, sat at the computer fighting with Mathematica, trying to model solar flares. Even though I have a pile of books, I’m burning through and there is so much to read I’ve barely read anything fun all day. I haven’t drawn anything, although I generally doodle every day. Instead, after finishing the day’s work I flopped in front of the second half of Toy Story 3. The boyfriend has Man Flu. I was exhausted.

Bedtime is a guilt-free full stop. When bedtime occurs, you no longer have to feel bad about all those things you should have done because it’s time for sleep. Sleep is precious.

When I was a child, I didn’t have a bedtime. I think I must have when I was very little, when my parents actually put me to bed, but I can’t remember it. Instead, I had a bedroom time, a time at which I had to be in my bedroom and quiet. There was no reason I couldn’t stay up and play, read or draw. Even for a while, play on the computer. At some point, my father decided that there should be a limit of when I could use my computer. At 8:55pm it would flash up a message, telling you there would be five minutes until the computer turned off. At 9:00pm, it would begin the shut down sequence.

Bedroom time no longer exists. Now I have a strictly enforced bedtime, enforced by me. At 10pm, I’m in bed, or at least heading there. By half past, I’m most certainly tucked in. It takes me only a few minutes to fall asleep.

I’m strangely grateful to my parents for allowing me to learn to set my bedtime. I used to think it funny that my friends had a time they had to go to bed. I often went to sleep earlier.

When do you sleep? Do you have a strict routine?

—

Enjoy Omonaikee’s blog.

http://omonaikee.blogspot.com/

Did you know you can get a heart-shaped box of strawberries from Sainsburys? Isn’t that a little excessive?

Until England in the 1300′s Saint Valentines day (today), wasn’t associated with any form of romantic love. Actually, even Saint Valentine’s identity is a bit obscure – there were 14(ish) of them and we could be celebrating the triumphs of any one of them. There was supposedly a feast on the day, but not much else. The name Valentine means something to do with being ‘worthy, strong and powerful’ and just to make it even more confusing, Saint Valentine is the saint of beekeepers and epilepsy!

So, as a guidance for the men who may need some prodding, the original inventor has some guidance.

Quote from BrainyQuote

‘There are only two types of madness we should guard against. One is the belief that we can do everything. The other is the belief that we can do nothing.’

A Dry White Season is a sad, depressing look at racial prejudices in apartheid South Africa through the story of a white man trying to bring justice to the memory of a black man. Ben du Toit is a schoolteacher whose life changes when he becomes involved with the family of the school caretaker Gordon Ngubene. Set around the Soweto Riots the book deals with the futile endeavours of an individual to overcome injustice by the state. This book was banned in South Africa. It was made into a film in 1989.

The story itself is incredibly gripping. I read it in only a few sittings, but had to stop reading it on the train, instead waiting until I was home, because I was scared of my own emotional reaction.

Now answers to the Around the World in 12 Books Challenge.

What did you learn about the country’s culture, history etc. from reading this book? Any new insights, any shifts in your perception, or did it align with what you knew/understood already?

Apparently, I know nothing about South Africa. The book reminded me of noughts and crosses by Malorie Blackman, I suppose because that’s one of the few other book which deals so directly with an apartheid.

How did land, geography, flora and fauna feature in the book? Did it have a distinct feel that helped you visualise and made you feel like you were there, or was the story more focused on plot?

unfortunately, the story focused on the interactions of the characters. There is a scene, set on a walking/camping trip however, the descriptions are again of people and their feelings towards each other. The visual descriptions did not strike me as being unique or special to South Africa, which maybe is of note in itself? In this respect, the book was disappointing, I had hoped for more visual descriptions.

Did the story make you want to visit/revisit the country, or explore it in a new way if you live there already; did it make you want to read more stories set in the country?

This book has made me want to read more stories set in South Africa as I feel as a banned book it’s on the extreme end of South African literature. My knowledge of the country and its history is pretty much non-existent.

Why not find out more about the South African author by reading this enlightening interview:

A life in writing: André Brink | Books | The Guardian.

More Reviews

We, my friend Miss H and I, stopped off at Cambridge on our way to Sweden. It was lunchtime and the moment we’d decided to attach the headlight converters to my car – Bertrand. My father had advised me that headlight converters are easy to put on, but a pain to remove.

Ten minutes after opening the packet, after carefully reading the instructions five times each, turning the diagram from side to side and upside down just in case that helped, we managed to lose one of them in the actual headlight. As much as we tried, we couldn’t get it back out. Have you ever tried attaching headlight converters in a multistory car park? You get some funny looks. Time was ticking. Bertrand pulled into Halfords in Cambridge where you can buy headlight converters, but they don’t provide a fitting service – we asked.

I bought some goats. This was actually a very important achievement as my mother (the scariest of scary ladies) had formed a long and arduous search for a small goat for the previous three weeks. This search was a result of needing to provide my boyfriend with a replacement goat. Whilst he was at university, his goat died but his parents hadn’t shared this information with him so when he went home there was just no goat.

Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a small goat?

In the ferry queue, we began noticing logos on pieces of camping equipment and flags. People stood waiting, wearing uniforms we recognised. Uniforms we also had. Ours however, despite once neatly ironed, were lying in a crumpled heap on the back seats (or at least the pile of luggage on the back seats). Somehow, I attached the headlight converters and I managed to manoeuvre Bertrand onto the ferry and park without crashing. Notice the use of the word I. Miss H was no longer allowed contact with the headlight converters and had to stay safely inside Bertrand where she couldn’t get into trouble.

Next time: Driving on the wrong side of the road and Danish parking metres.

(We named my car after Bertrand Russell and a greatⁿ grandfather of mine called Albert. Does your car have a name?)

Origami birds hang from fairy lights strung around stuffed bookshelves. The bright coloured romance or historical fiction stacked like a rainbow. A paper heart hooked on an old fashioned bicycle horn. A sewing mannequin stands in the middle of the floor semi dressed in a short floral dress.  An easel leans against a wall covered with pictures, quotes, decorations, paintings. Fabric, in pretty patterns and bright colours, is scattered everywhere. High-heeled shoes stand in rows. Photos, letters and postcards surround a piano² – the University’s Naked Rowing Team calendar hangs opposite. It’s a collage of colours and words.

“What subject did you say you did?” she asked.

Physics.

I don’t quite live up to the stereotype. What other assumptions have you made about me? What assumptions do people make about you?

Are they right?

¹ And potentially something scandalous about my love life…

² Why I have a piano is a different story. I can’t play it.

Origami hummingbird instructions.

For most people at university getting an essay back is not a huge deal, except this was the first essay I have had to write since I did G.C.S.E. exams when I was 16. When you care about your writing as much as I do then having someone tell you that you’ve done a good piece of work matters.

So whilst I’m incredibly glad that my mark is good, I still feel the incredible need to rant about it.

Firstly, I submitted my essay on the 10th December. The feedback became available on the 31st January. How long would you expect to wait for work back? Especially, if you recall the amount a university education costs?

The feedback consists of a total of 58 words. 58!

From a positive point of view:

Outstanding is used twice.

Excellent is used three times. (Including to describe my use of grammar and mechanics, well done to my proofreaders!)

Good is used twice.

Very is used once and really twice.

However, as a person who strives to improve their writing, the idea that the only negative comment I received was ‘no figures – this is a very attractive visually could really benefit from {a word that looks a little like ‘there’} here’ and ‘visual presentation would help but some really good examples cited’ appalls me. What am I meant to learn from that? Now that I am a final year student have they given up entirely on me?

Now I’m willing to bet that my first essay in four or five years is not perfect. Certainly not good enough to merit the need for no feedback on my writing whatsoever. I’d like to claim that it’s unlikely there are no errors in my 2000 word essay.  Additionally, I disagree that the essay needs an image and I certainly disagree with being down graded because of it.

Whats the least satisfactory feedback you’ve ever received? How would you go about providing constructive feedback on an academic essay?

So, if anybody fancies reading 2000 words on the effects of solar flares on the Earth and critiquing my work properly I’m more than willing to take all the criticism I can get. I bet you could do better than this university I attend.