I call it the ‘Black Light District’
I have not written for a good long while so I figured an update was in order for all of you fans. All three of you, that is. Is it sad that one of my few avid readers is my mother? That’s like saying ‘Yea, I’m a good singer, my mommy tells me so.’ Regardless, time to talk about something that makes me feel less pathetic.
Like Setine’s discovery of my blog, which brought much rejoicing to my shocked and wondering eyes. If that wasn’t a one-hit-wonder type of comment, I say, ‘Hello Setine, of course I remember you, you defined the awesome of my childhood along with the rest of the gang.’ Amber and Crystal may bask in that statement as well.
On to more about Scotland and my new discovery. Cockburn street is where freaky goth/emo/subculture kids hang out, it’s kind of like Queen street, minus the big box stores all crammed into about half the size of hardcoreity. It’s pretty nifty, actually, I spent a lot of money in my mind. No actual money, but with brain money, christ I’ve gone into negative numbers.
But I have come to a number of conclusions about the hardcore sector in most major cities, called (very uncleverly by me) the Black Light districts. First is the Canadian example, that is Queen street, this huge sprawlingly massive street where the weird walk easily amongst the normal. American Eagle is practically across the street from Borderlines, if you see what I mean. Basically, it’s where the brightly coloured people look at the ’shades’ people and wonder which will go postal. Interestingly enough, the ’shades’ people are wondering the exact same thing.
Camden Town is London’s ttly (chatspeaked for a reason) hardxcore district. Whenever you go down here you feel like it’s a fasion show, you half expect when the people get to the end of the street, they stop, make a pouty face, and turn around and walk back up the street. Everyone is the complete and perfect stereotype of whatever subculture they partake in. There’s no semi-goths like me, only hardfickingcore ones. In all honesty, like most of London, when you walk down the streets of Camden you generally assume people dislike you for some reason. Possibly because you have an invisible tattoo on the back of your head that says ‘idiot colonial’ that only British people can see. There is no way to remove this tattoo.
Finally, Cockburn street, the street that made me realise what the world would be like if goth was the prodominant dress style, rather than preppy. Let me explain. Walking down this street you have the usual cobbled lanes and shops, the street itself is on a hill, the street is not extrordinary, the people was what got me. A bunch of eyelinered children playing jump rope on the sidewalk, while a few watched. Some oddly aged ones (no I’m not kidding, old goths) sitting on a bench chatting while two black boot clad parents pushed a baby in a carriage up the hill. I thought I was dillusional. Maybe I was.
I went to Waterstones after that little out of body experience and purchased the 2 pound editon of Sherlock Holmes, remembering only after that this was the hometown of the author, I read the first bit in the park before returning to the hostel to blog about how insane Cockburn street was.
To my commenters:
To Setine, of course I remember you (see above) and was delighted to see your comment. We should talk more!
To Amber, of course I am enjoying myself, and I would be beside myself with glee to have the Ravens Fanlisting, I now have the Fanlist for Ravens and The Raven. Thus proving the bird which used to be in the empty cage. Though, now I have to make a layout.
To Kassi, (sorry for the name misspelling! Erk!) You should seriously come back, and don’t worry about the plastered thing, if I wanted to avoid it I would have made an excuse on the phone, seriously. Don’t be embarassed, I’m cool.
To Ange, ANSWER YOUR FUNKING PHONE! *ahem* Of course I am popular with the guys now, I have an accent, and that makes me wicked cool.
To Mah, 153.
To Crystal, always.
Chinese in Scotland
I had had more than my fill of being poor in London. And that’s not to say I dislike the city at all, it was simply that I had no money, and I didn’t want to feel like a poor colonial cretin any more. I will go back one day and become a proper Londoner, until then I have moved to Edinburgh.
But I have so much to write about! My last entry hardly covered everything that has happened. It didn’t really even scrape the surface.
My last week in London (for now, I still have to see the Jack the Ripper exhibit at the Docklands exhibit, as well, I WILL see the Phantom when I get more money) was so full of stuff I’m still reeling from it. It’s amazing how much you still want to do once you realise you’re leaving.
I went out clubbing (I use the term extremely loosely here) with an American girl I met in the hostel named Cassie. We headed to some pub first, where she starts drinking and I peacefully drink my coke. (I swear people who read this must think I’m insane or a complete liar… I assure you, it is the former) So, we invited the Belgian girl from our hostel and she came along later, with, oh yea, six Spanish guys in tow. Well, permit me to correct, five Spanish guys, and one guy from “nowhere” (that’s actually where he told us he was from) but he was twitching seemingly uncontrollably, and kept saying weird things, he left early, Danke Gott.
Initially the main language used by the group was English, which is lovely, because it’s the only one I’m completely fluent in. But then some Dutch guy comes to our table and asks if anyone smokes, Cassie does. So she leaves. Belgian girl lived in Spain for three years, guess what happened next?
=D
Yes, we all started speaking Spanish. Well, they all started speaking Spanish, I started counting the bubbles in my coke. One of the Spanish guys (who I think was probably sweet on me as his hands kept accidentally finding it’s way on my knee or shoulder… Andrew told me laws of seduction lesson one, casual physical contact is key) gave me play-by-play on the conversation ‘Now we’re talking about sports’, and ‘Now we’re talking about the English’ I nearly politely excused myself, but then, I guess Canada came up as the topic of conversation, as I was left all alone, (Cassie is now sitting with the Dutch guys laughing and carrying on) I had to try and decipher broken drunken English as the Spaniards pelted me with questions about North America, then got frustrated because I was talking to fast and speaking ‘too well’ I kept my cool, but when the bar closed and they invited me ‘dancing’ I politely declined, and fled with guy-crushing-on-me and Belgian girl in tow.
It’s funny, they could not believe I had never learned a word of Spanish. I think I got asked a hundred times ‘Never? Not even once?’ ‘No. I’m Canadian they teach us FRENCH. You know, ‘bonsoir’, ‘fromage’, ‘pomme’… Blame the Quebecois.’
The next day I played tour guide in central London for Cassie. It’s amazing how quickly things become unimpressive when you live around them. “There’s buckinghampalacethereswestminsterabbeyandbigbenandtrafalgarsquare yayz’ I feel so spoiled.
So that evening I was supposed to see Mama Mia in the Leicester (Lester, damnit) Square cheap seats with Hong Kong room mate and Belgian Room Mate, but we lost Hong Kong girl and I didn’t feel like spending £20 to see a show I’ve seen in Toronto all by myself. So I went on a Jack the Ripper walk.
Strange days. I met a trainee tour guide while on the Jack walk and so I chatted with him the whole time about who I thought the Ripper was and all of my little theories. He said I should be doing the ripper walk. We went to the Ten Bells after the tour, (a favourite hang out of the victims apparently) and they played the Doors there all night, which felt oddly wonderful. Myself and this guy just sat around and talked Jack and Diana and JFK.
I left the hostel for Milton Keynes and from there hit Edinburgh where I am now. Night before last I met up with Cassie again and her friend from the city, again the loosely termed ‘clubbing’ she was already plaaaaaastered beyond concept, so I sat and sipped my coke and watched real-live sexual tension between the two (British guy has a girlfriend in Wisconsin, but seems to have a crush on Cassie as well) by the end of the evening Cassie was proclaiming that she was going to call BUNAC the next day and get her VISA. Okay.
So other then that, calling agencies and stuff is the next step, I plan to stay in this lovely little hostel (with free Wifi) and temp from there. Ah, bliss and easy stuff.
Last night I went to a Chinese restaurant, it was a bit more expensive than my usual fare but worth it. I came out of the place feeling like a princess. (Back to my weekend hostel which smelt terrible and was right in the middle of the party district so it was loud all night and the blankets looked like they were pulled out of a dumpster)
Regardless, I feel somehow happier.
To my commenters:
Mah, yes, I suppose that is a job suited to my talents.
Amber, Danke lav.
New Notebook - New Town
I had no momentum going with my old notebook so I got a new one.
No momentum in the job/home front so I’m moving.
Scotland here I come.
What would you think if I sang out of tune?
Likely, “Well, that’s to be expected…”
In case my song reference was a bit obscure (It wasn’t) Yes! I spent the weekend in Liverpool. I ‘past stalked’ the Beatles. I am now filled with the light of the holy Beatles, made my pilgrimage to the Cavern club, and just about ready to shave my head and retreat to the mountains humming yellow submarine to myself.
As is the way with coastal towns I came away from my amazing journey with a cold. I am now sniffling and sneezing and the girl at the next computer appears to want me to die. Might not be far off, girl at the next computer, wishing ill on me is bad karma in this condition.
I brief overview of what I saw in Liverpool. The childhood homes of George, John, Paul, aaaand Ringo, Penny Lane, the place where John met Paul, and (the site of my FIRST touristy photo) Strawberry Fields (somehow it just… didn’t seem real… and, I’m well aware I’m not funny) Tons of fun, plus me tour bus totally had the Magical Mystery Tour logo painted on the side. That was a little taste of win-sauce right there.
I don’t have much to write about, I did a lot of hand written introspective journalling in Liverpool, thus not being overly adventurous. I chatted with a street musician for awhile in the pouring rain, very strange… (I just can’t stop it it seems)
And I met my first person from the Isle on Man! I saw her crying at the train station and against my natural inclination to sit there and keep reading I went over, apparently she goes to school in Leeds and was homesick, so we chatted a bit and such. Intrigue.
To my commenters:
Amber, it is indeed Castaway where the guy talks to the volleyball, as I recall the only real redeeming factor of the movie.
Ange, I tried calling you a MILLION times in Liverpool because I know of your Beatles love but your stupid PHONE was off. I tried incessantly at Penny Lane. YOU SUCK! I’m still NFA, however if you sent things to the following address I will get it:
16 Bowling Green Lane,
London,
EC1R 0QH
No place like like London, alright.
Sweeney will not be coming out here until May 15th… Seriously, What the hell? It was set here!
And they have the GALL to call this western civilisation. Frontier territory, that’s where I am… I mean, what do they have to do? Translate it?
However, they do have literally shelves of the Battle Royale movie. No seriously, I have a photo. In the first section of HMV there were several shelves with Battle Royale on them. Definite shock there — thus I actually did take a picture.
I’m so bored and lonely. Honestly, only old people in my hostel, again I say, YOUTH hostel, not old-bloody-age home! I just need someone to spend some time with, you know, lone ranger skit is nice but complete isolation is going to have me chatting up a volleyball.
Hey! I’m alone on an island! It could totally happen!
Possibly Liverpool on the weekend. I should do my Beatlemania thing and past-stalk the Beatles. Maybe I’ll do Abbey Road tonight to get myself warmed up.
What part of YOUTH are you still in denial about?!
The noisy Aussies who hated me, the Indian who was probably too ill to be in a hostel that night as she made the most amazing sounds from the moment her head hit the pillow until she woke up, the pant(and trouser!)less wonder, Team God Bless America… you certainly meet interesting characters in hostels. Then you meet people like KiwiClare, HottieMcScotland, and ‘I’m not in Mississippi anymore’, and suddenly you remember that hostelling isn’t really all that bad.
HOWEVER. I am going to KILL my only room mate this week. KILL HER WITH KNIVES. Call my BFF Jack, teh rippxxorzxcorelollerskates.
But seriously.
This woman is probablyyyy about 60 something or 70 something. Therefore lulling you into a false sense of security. You’d THINK it would be me pissing her off, after all, I am a strapping teenager full of vitality and life.
But no. Not at all in fact, night one, I politely introduce myself and say ‘I have to sleep now, I need to work tomorrow’ Does she shut up? No! Is it general chatter? Nope! Specific questions that I feel obliged to answer in the interest of peace in the hostel? Abso-bloody-lutely!
Now, generally speaking, talking too much is forgiveable in a hostel, last night is why I want to kill her.
I go to bed nice and early after talking to Stacey on the phone, I notice her bags and stuff are still around but she’s not in yet, I figure I should sleep any ways ‘Hostel Law number five hundred and twenty four states if thou gets to thy hostel after thy first person in the room falls asleep thou shallt get thy shit together silently in the dark, in the mercy of our lord, the manager’ Which I assume she does, because I didn’t wake up when she came in.
It’s not until she turns her radio on at 3:55AM that I wake up. A talk show. First assumption is it’s a mistake, or some kind of seriously funked up alarm system, as the topic of discussion seems to be rice. Then I hear the volume and station being adjusted slightly, to eliminate static.
I am floored by this. As I try to decide if it is quiet enough to sleep through I decide I am too indignant to even try. I try to subtly get across the fact that I am no longer sleeping, by conciously tossing, and sighing. No avail. So I growl over my shoulder, ‘You mind turning that down a bit?’ She offers a gloomy half-arsed apology and turns it off. As though I am putting her out. Hello? It’s 4 AM, don’t funking mess with me.
YHA, Youth Hostel Association my…
Anyways! Ireland!
I was surprised at how ‘hardcore’ Dublin was. I imagine it has a much ‘younger’ population in London. I arrived after about 45 minutes on a plane and met up with Marilyn. Every sign is in Gaelic and English! My room at Marilyn’s was preeetty much like a hotel room (needless to say I was pleased)
Our day around Dublin was awesome, I managed to get all my touristy stuff down. The Book of Kells, Trinity Collage, and of course I am physically unable to enter a city and not see the official museum. And NOTHING makes you feel like a bad person for being English like an Irish museum. You know, every atrocity EVER was committed by the British. EVER. Nazi Rule? The Royal Family is German! You kind of feel like putting on an Irish accent just in case. The surname… uhm… O’Bagg… yes, that’s me, Caitlin O’Bagg, and of COURSE Caitlin spelt with a C and an I what do you think I am? British?
The worst part is I am Irish and I still felt bad.
After doing Dublin Marilyn took me out to the countryside to see the lambs. I nearly died of adorable overload. Especially the little black one, I relate to the little black sheep. I am the little black sheep.
Sunday was… amazing.
We went to this castle ruin. Only it wasn’t a ‘popular’ castle ruin, so I had the whole castle to myself. It was breathtaking, and to be the only one there. On the way down Marilyn and I met up with a local. I think he said he was going to be doing an archaeological dig there, but I didn’t understand a word with his thick accent and the speed he was talking.
We also went to a monastery and cemetery which I would have appreciated so much more if I wasn’t still in awe of the castle.
To my commenters:
Ange, some of the Hardcore Irish boys were pretty swoonable. My joke was most amazingly amusing! My jokes always are! You said so! You have to stop hanging out with me if my jokes stop being funny! You are ultra fabby (my Britishism) Huzzah!
Daniel, Do comment more, or I’ll set… Dana on you!
From the last entry:
Emmadawn, I needed you and your ‘le 1337 (un-trois-trois-sept) skillz francais’ in Paris. I was so happy getting to see Jim <3
If you want to send me le mail de escargot you can send it here:
16 Bowling Green Lane,
London,
EC1R 0QH
And I will get it <3
Bwahahah on the evil Yellow faces which I’m still trying to figure out how to disable.
To Crystal, I know D= I misses real internets
To Amber, I have a few pages for you to start with, how many do you want at once?
To Mah, no only dead people I hero worship get that sort of love. Syd’s next.
Excel Spreadsheets and why Wisdom is underrated.
Well, I haven’t stopped in here in awhile. Internet access has been a pain, so I’m abusing the work internet for a few minutes. A responsible abuse, I can assure you. Thus, the entry may be short, and very sneaky.
Oxford, was there maybe last week or so, it wasn’t too bad, I mostly did (dun dun dun) shopping. So, I can’t tell you about the beautiful sites. Also, incidentally, it was pouring. I did get a copy of Memento and eat pizza though, so it wasn’t a total loss.
So! What else have I been doing? Working! YAY! A charming £9/hour with a 1 braincell/second tax. Angelena’s rant about going to school plays ad nauseum in my head daily. I’m just waiting for my Tell-Tale Heart moment when I shriek to the silent room “I GET IT! SHUT UP!” The office is as silent as a tomb usually, as I liken tapping on keyboards to rattling bones or something equally spooky.
I am allowed to listen to music, but my ears actually hurt from two weeks straight of having ear buds in them. So I’ve gone unplugged today (buy the album) and kind of want to gouge my eyes out. No particular reason, but it might alleviate the boredom.
Some nice things about my job — well, not the job specifically, but they are more work related than not. The nearest Tube (Chyuuuube) Station is St.James’ Park. I work on the short street between the Chyuuube Station and the actual park.
I talk to mom quite a bit because I get so bored at lunch, see example below.
April 1st:
“God, mom, the weather here is bloody TERRIBLE! I have never seen anything so miserable.”
“Tell me about it, at least there’s something in common!”
“APRIL FOOL’S! I’m sitting on the grass in the warm sun in the park surrounded by flowers!!”
Wasn’t that a funny April Fool’s Prank? I thought it was hysterical.
My new pals the Kiwis don’t get it. But then, they’re so far south they frequently get cut off the bottoms of maps.
Ah! I haven’t mentioned my new found knowlage of New Zealand, and love for all things Kiwi! New Zealand is the Canada of the Southern Hemisphere you see. Always getting bullied by stupid Australia!
I learned much about the Kiwis after meeting Clare the Kiwi in the Earl’s Court Hostel, then finding out my fellow bored temping co-worker James is ALSO a Kiwi! We hardly talk for fear of hurting the silence, but when every one else was in a meeting I found the ideal ice breaker.
“Am I the only one who wants to KILL myself?”
“Yea, I’m on Facebook.”
“Fair enough.”
So, he was on Facebook and we had quite the talk about how little work he does. Thus, my rebel-blogging!
I went pub hopping with my Kiwi Pal Clare, and a (quite good looking) Scottish guy named Jamey. Andrew and I are finito (again) and so I am allowed to look at cute guys. I have his phone number so I win. Told me to look him up if I was in Scotland. He’s 22 so there’s no prayer, I’ll just gaze dreamily off into space.
Thank you to my beloved commenters, I’ll reply to them on the next entry. I’m off to Dublin tonight!
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