From Fields to Field Day and Beyond (Retro).

Having just turned off Channel Five's Don't Stop Believing out of outrage that Essex's 'Original Talent' show choir - fine masters of both Gaga-inspired dancing and a Billy Jean meets Gnarls Barkley's 'Crazy' - was cruelly voted out in place of 'Swish' - teenage Robbie Williams' cheesemongering fankids - I decided that I'd put an end to a week-long Bowlface abstinence. It's what Sunday nights were made for. Or rather, the first of seven nights of roaming around in a parent-free house. Announcing a free house on the internet may in some cases cause myspace parties with thousands of teens high on Coca-Cola and the placebo-effects of WKDs. However, I celebrated freedom by eating a dinner comprising of a bit of pork pie, peanut butter on toast, cherry tomatoes and a microwaved doughnut; a myspace party would suck in comparison. Just in case, though, I've removed the 'location' tab from the bottom of the last few posts.

Over the weekend I left the fields of the Shire for the 'fields' of London's Victoria Park in a pseudo-village attempt of a 'chin-scratching music' festival that was Field Day. They won some 'Village Mentality' points with the pig roast and the sack races. However, had they hired in some inter-related country types (to preach sayings like "it's no use planting a cooked potato", rather than having them printed on sacks and hung up) I could almost have been in my native Shire given the high-middle-class level of expensive but scruffily dressed, fake mockney posh kids kicking about. Amongst the stripy shirts (which I too was slightly shamefully clad in) and overpriced cans of Stella I enjoyed a healthy amount of inte-lectro beats and euphoric sounds from the likes of Gold Panda, Pantha Du Prince, Hudson Mohawke and Moderat, amongst others on far too many stages for a festival of just over ten hours in length.

We hadn't had enough artful hair do's and ironic-dressing on Saturday, so we headed to Brick Lane today for the mega Sunday market and a cheap brunch. Where, amongst all the various unwanted crap being sold on the pavement - my favourite sight being a slogan T-shirt saying 'OH MY GOD, I'M SO RETRO' - I found a tote bag that could well provide me with more happiness than most things. That's because it falsely labels me as a member of the fictitious Hackney Guild of Taxidermists. Because it is technically an imaginary guild the fact I don't practice taxidermy in Hackney is irrelevant. I'm a massive stuffed-animal fan, and my Oxford Literary Festival 2008 freebie tote is being retired to occasional use due to getting tragically threadbare. You too can celebrate a love of canvas and double-headed swans here.

And now back to the Shire, which is free of continental dance music producers and more than twelve people within the age group of 18-24. Despite leaving an extensive note, the absence of parents probably means that there's going to be little to 'make blogs' about, as Daddy B would say. To compensate for this emotional whirlwind, I end on my favourite Shire-ism of the last week:

Daddy B on witnessing a police car siren past the house: 'alright, we're not in New York'.      

Taking on Applejack.

Arguably, when the closest one's Friday night gets to a club involves driving home to Annie Mac Presents, Saturday morning lie-ins are unjustifiable. Especially for a morning person. Despite this, going for a run at 8.25 during one is still pretty ungodly.

After a couple of glasses of wine the previous evening (consumed post-work, alongside a family meal and 'civilised' conversation. WILD), I agreed, nay, was coerced, into going for a jog the next morning avec newly-fitness-fanatic sister. As regular readers may know, I've not been adverse to an early run across the acres of field that comprise the Shire, and so, despite not having done any exercise for two months, this seemed like a great way to squidge in some sibling quality time in a weekend otherwise lost to H.E.R.S (high-end retail slavery, get with it). Or so I was told.

The thing is, I should always have been suspicious. VINCENTS DON'T DO SPORT. As recent nostalgic 'accidental' replaying of home videos from the early nineties has demonstrated, we're missing that from both gene pools. Granted, we're not overweight nor lazy; enjoy a walk and some hands-on gardening. However, P.E and Games were never timetable highlights, the fact that Dad couldn't join in the Dad's Race at primary school sports day due to 9-5 commitments never massively grieved us - we weren't blind to the comparable size of the rugby team fathers - and I, one-time team member of the Rounders 'B' Team in year 9 and a fourth member of the winning relay team due to peer pressure alone, am considered 'the sporty one'. As a bored child I much rather had crayons than quoits, to the extent my mother threatened moving 'to a flat with no garden if you don't go and play in it'. No thankyou, sport, we do vintage motor cars and baking, a healthy equilibrium considering the slight of arse necessary to fit into the former.

Therefore the announcement that female sibling Bowlface had a) decided to run 10K, and b) for a sense of self-achievement, a celebration of youth and well-being and, even more shockingly, c) NON-CHARITABLE FUN, shook us as a family unit somewhat. The lack of sponsorship has been a point hotly and repeatedly justified by her over the weekend, especially considering that Mummy B confessed to 'telling everyone [she] was doing it for Cancer Research'.


I woke up at 8.03 on Saturday morning, sleepily surmised that sister B would be pouncing into my room at any second and that, like my five year-old self trying to avoid a smack, hiding under the duvet would make it all go away. Eight minutes later my room was indeed invaded by Sister B dressed head to toe in overpriced, 'scientifically-personalised' lycra garb from some kind of Clapham-specific running shop. Reader, my resistance was short-lived and futile. At 8.16 I joined her, (in freebie scene-mag teeshirt and grubby mum trainers) analogising that whilst she resembled (My Little Pony) Applejack from our childhood toybox in temperament and appearance, I was feeling like 'Claude', the peculiarly chunky mauve plastic nag from a French supermarket.

Don't underestimate that doe-eyed expression. 'Claude', not unsurprisingly, does not have a Google images entry.

This proved true for the entire 30 minutes and 2.5 miles of tomato-faced 'sibling quality time'. I do believe the words 'go on without me', were muttered at one point. I had turned into the Billy Pilgrim of a Shire-based Slaughterhouse Five, complete with her disbelieving my sheep theories. Never again.  

My Mum's having a love affair with American Apparel

Wednesday night. Katie and Alex: For Better, For Worse. Large amount of 'reject' meringues consumed (due to the lack of essential gooey chewy middle, and increased risk of explosion, a whole batch got replaced by a new batch for parental party last weekend). Huge manly fleece jacket adopted. Potential bliss.

I can justify this middle-class, parent-free squalor by having been enslaved to high-end retail for nine hours today. Yesterday, however, I spent my day off in a not dissimilar situation. Unfortunately, penury dictates that I can't always spend my enslavement-free days on bikes in other Northern European countries, so I undertook similar activities to that of a bored housewife. Without a husband or children to entertain, thank God.  

Amongst shoe polishing, laundry, and buying some baking essentials amongst other groceries, I also lowered my psychological age by a generation and got on with my 'making American Apparel rip-offs' project. Or so I thought. Because, shortly after fabricating a near-perfect imitation of a circle scarf for £4.95 and a bit of love, my Mum returned (to dinner on the table, may I add) only to announce her recently discovered love affair with American Apparel.

Turns out last week shortly before a ladies-who-lunch lunch, Mummy Bowlface stepped into the American Apparel in Covent Garden, and finally realised why I had been chatting on about AA since the gold leotard-purchasing event four years ago. Granted, since then, as certain leaked documents detail "The New Standard" demonstrate, gold leotards are no longer as hot as lace blouses. Still, Mummy B's grabbing of my homewear favourite, the Sailor Stripe Long Sleeve Pullover, was the sartorial equivalent of hearing Vampire Weekend's debut album played at last years' garden party: an enlightening, delightful moment of generational bonding, just one somewhat tainted by an impending sense of losing my 'edge'. (Yes, that 'edge' which is sharpened by housewifely activities).

On reflection, it makes so much sense that Mums should love American Apparel more than twenty-something trend-following types. After all, they're not going to be made to feel podgy and inadequate by the overwhelmingly attractive staff, nor experience the inevitable sense of competition that seeps from each piece of baby cord; because AA isn't the usual dinner party wear, and, (if we are to believe them), their offspring are just as pretty as that chiseled cheekbone-owning waif in the corner who's folding things with a sense of superiority. Furthermore, for a woman who likes to leave notes directing me to my dinner half a metre apart, the super-clear labelling of every garment in 's', 'm' and 'l' is a dream come true. Too much of my 'acceptable' (i.e, high street originating) wardrobe has been purchased from AA for me to give it up, plus it's just too damn comfy. Although if Mummy B has her way it may soon be making its way, garment by garment, into hers...

Mole-stuffing and Munich

Yeouch, evidently I've broken the two-posts-a-week rule. Bad times. As ever, this is due to:
a) not much happening, and
b) too much happening to get to blogspot.
Yes, that cruel paradox.

Last week pretty much comprised of slavery to high-end retail, minus the amount of customers which make such slavery bearable. As a result, we came up with means of entertainment including trying on all the ugliest clothes in the stock room (ok, so that was just me, but everyone else enjoyed it), discovering mutual love of Shakira and discussing the metaphysics of The Stray Cats' lead singer. What if he really was a cat? This is what infinite repeats of 100 Hits of the 80s CDs will do. I would embed the video but I fear that listening to it in a non-work context may result in my brain imploding.

Other highlights last week including STUFFING A MOLE. I know, it's a pretty big highlight for a taxidermy fan. A local rookie taxidermist friend is constantly on the hunt for mini furry victims of natural death and animal-suicide to give a second life to, and lo and behold, parentals Bowlface found a mole of such unfortunate circumstances in our garden! Everyone (me and local rookie taxidermist friend) was very excited. Anyway, it's been stuffed! and called after the real Bowlface familial name of Vincent! And we (see above generic plural) really want to dress him in tiny Victorian garb! Here's a pic, the squeamish may want to look away - despite his friendly giant-pawed gesture he's got a bit of a bloody jaw.

This week, however, has been enslaved to high-end retail for only the latter half. The former half I went to Munich on some super cheap flights for social reasons (getting out of the Shire). Cheap flights involved a fair amount of coach travel. However between Memmingem and Munich I really got into the Deutsch of things and cracked open Slaughterhouse Five and Kraftwerk's Trans-Europe Express to accompany me along the borderline Black Forest autobahn, which unavoidably caused images of Nazi propaganda (the prettier ones with fields in) to come to mind. Once in Munich, time was mainly spent getting excited over the taste sensation that is Weissbier and cycling around on 'rescued' (albiet by means of sawing off a chain, prior to my arrival) Holga, the prettiest once-abandoned bike in Munich.

Munich is made for cyclists; the cycle paths are as wide as the roads, they have their own traffic lights and pedestrians who walk in them tend not to out of shame (massive contrast to England where I feebly ring my bell before shouting CYCLE PATH in the face of whoever I nearly crash into as a last resort). Holga, naturally, had a basket which we shoved copies of German Vice magazine, Brot und Kase and other fun picnic stuff into, before embarking for the 'English' Garten to swim in fake rivers and giggle childishly at wierdly shaven old naked men.

Holga, I miss you so much.

I also listened to Belgian artist Michael Borremans in conversation with an undeniably critical German chap about his awesome paintings, how easy it was to find Nazi magazines in Belgium and how much he ripped off Caravaggio. I think it helped that he'd removed his brogues and sat happily in bare feet, or that he had a ginger beard, or that he retorted to the challenging philosophical art questions with lines like 'well, yes, she could just be sat in a bath of chocolate...or shit', but I fell a little bit in love with him. Here's one of my favourites:

Aaaand that just about takes us up to riight now. There's another big social event in the village tonight (the Shire is just one huge social whirlwind - should probably set up a new label for it), except this time it's in my parents' garden. I've been warned by Mummy Bowlface 'not to write anything nasty' about her on the blog -even though it stems from deep, deep affection and pride - so tomorrow's review may well be censored. I can, however, say this much: there has already been conversations both about and with the furniture this morning. As ever, I'm going to make a fashionably late entrance, not because I'm cool, but because I'm working. Exciting times.

For non-pet people, animals really love our house.

Unfortunately, due to the success of Justin (shitmydadsays) 's once-pathetic living at home existence which happily coincided with an elderly parent, this post isn't going to have quite the same pizzazz nor book-writing novelty. However, as my parents are not (yet) elderly and it has taken me three years of living away from them to realise the pure unadulterated and often worrying gold that leaves their mouths, I can be given this one as an epiphany.

For, in a mere two weeks, my parents could have aided numerous wannabe BBC 3 comedy writers with their bizarre and unwittingly amusing utterings. Arguably, that could be construed as not so many, but it's definitely something I've never really noticed before. Sure, there were always the classics; like when my mum dubbed a social networking site as 'myface', or referred to Radiohead circa '99 as 'that moany band your brother likes'. But it's reached a whole new level now. Particular favourites include:
- My Dad on hearing that yesterday was the anniversary of Micheal Jackson's death: 'that was all rather unfortunate, really'.
- and in general regard to the news: 'What are they doing wheeling that old dinosaur on?'
- My Mum on Australians: 'well, they're all descended from convicts anyway'.
- and on my graduation outfit: 'you better try that on again in case you've put on weight and you can't fit into it'
My favourite responses include: 'stop taking the piss out of the deaf presenter man, Mum'.

Therefore, when the aforementioned childhood-friends-come-of-age-village-parent-lunch-party was described as a 'champagne avalanche' at 11am today, I knew it was time to get involved. I was, however, mildly distracted by a small maternal shriek, which was immediately followed with 'THERE'S A SPARROW IN THE KITCHEN!' Even in the dual context of 'shire' and 'parental outbursts', this really was the stuff of fiction.

Whilst Mummy Bowlface has an irrational fear of cute newly-fledged sparrows under an all-encompassing feather fear, Daddy Bowlface has an entirely rational love and fascination of fowl. Especially buzzards. When driving. But I think that's just a Dad thing. Anyway, I walked in to the kitchen to find Mr. MiniSparrow (or Spuggy, as Kirsty Golightly so adorably calls him) perched happily on top of the antiquated toasting-grill above the aga, inside an inglenook. Add some alpine foliage and it could have been a Christmas card. I tried to take a photo of him, however, like most creatures I aim my early 80s SLR at, he swiftly flew off, settling for the microwave. After a bit of bemusement with a Jamie Oliver sugar jar, he found a bottle of vitamins as the next appropriate perch, before finally settling on his rightful place on Daddy Bowlface's shoulder. Never before has the Shire produced such a cutcopy of a Snow White and Zipedeedoodah video hybrid.

Can someone give me abs, please?

Old habits die hard. It's my day off from 'style advising' in high end retail hell and blogging has already been interrupted by 'style advising' Mummy Bowlface's lunch party outfit whilst simultaneously explaining my life plan. This wasn't even the old habit I was referring to dying hard. Because, friends, I've returned to the early weekend 'bed blog' - a means of psyching myself up for a run which has, naturally, resulted in me sacking it off. The sun's come out now - a couple hours ago it was still cloudy and under my duvet vague thoughts of dashing through fields seemed a bit like a Witch Hazel advert, from which I would return with rock-hard abs.

Alas and welaway, I shall remain podgy and maybe attempt a few crunches during Friends. Oh hai, being sixteen. Without distractions from the outside cultured world, such as The Creators Project, I find myself using sad bits of trivia and comments from the middle-aged ladies I serve as a root of autodidacticism. Or blog fodder, at the very least. Yesterday I repeated this feeble joke in both verbal and text form to at least four people:

'what's the best cheese to hide a horse?'
'mascapone!'

I got that gem off Radio One, which, Bowlfans, you may remember me shunning in light of Radio Four's erudite leanings. However, I just like 'chart and chat' of a morning when it's spent inside a car, driving to a place which insists on repeating the same Hits of The 80s CDs for eight hours a day. Yesterday it took my colleague about 4.9 minutes to comment on my 'neck beard' - a bit of tufty fluff which, contrary to the urban dictionary definition, was once my hair until an unfortunate sunny afternoon and a friend with scissors resulted in a feeble undercut attempt - before announcing that the septuagenarian she just served smelt like me. Upon entering the fitting room this lady had been occupying, I couldn't smell a thing, which proved her point. Apparently, it smells like 'dairy', more specifically milk - I'm hoping she's trying to describe the smell of cocoa butter because otherwise this is a whole new symptom of Shire Syndrome.

Later the influence of Gok Wan that all broadsheet weekend colour supplements like to comment on at least quarterly was realised as the following conversation occurred between two customers:
'oh, if you try that dress on you have to wear a belt with it'
'why?'
'because Gok puts a belt with everything, so it must be good'.
It's sad but true that the man who adorns high street items with hideous haberdashery really is transforming lives.

Add a couple of Italians who I overheard saying 'Mamma Mia' and the fact that the campest hairdresser in the village down the road isn't free to deal with the neck beard until THE 8TH OF JULY and I had a thoroughly gob smacking day. Lunch party later: cue scenes from The Graduate. I'm contemplating printing handouts with bullet points justifying my graduate existence to save repetitive and awkward conversations.

pity post

I would promise that this wouldn't be a few hundred words of snivelling, self-deprecating pity post action, except it is. Surely the fact I'm blogging, sober, on a Friday night having chewed through the bottom of a tub of slightly old ice-cream (n.b, verb use of 'chewed') and switched off the TV after seeing that the episodes of My Super Sweet 16 are re-runs is enough to explain the title alone?

This time last week I was nursing foot bruises from awkwardly rocking to Bon Jovi in those shoes at the grad ball, and about to embark on a nine hour pub crawl before losing my oyster-eating virginity (like the first go at most things, it was awkward and a bit gross) on Northumberland street. 

A sneakily-taken photo of my friend sneakily planning my shock oyster eating experience.

Now, however, I am back in the Shire. Hopefully for the last ever time of permanent temporary residence, although those are potentially words that are waiting to come back and pleasantly smack me in the face. Delightful as it is: punnets of raspberries with post-it notes saying 'For Alice's pudding! Enjoy!' in the fridge, near-constant parental love, a cleaner, carpet that doesn't have stuff stuck on it and Joan-replacement, my beloved Yom-mobile; an early noughties Corsa (which apparently smells of dog but is pleasantly homey to me), a lack of young, intelligent people and any kind of society is numbing my brain.

I'm finding myself conducting life bitterly through the Internet. Just another symptom of my regression to a teenage state. Despite having stripped my bedroom walls of life size posters of general idol and all-round indie heartthrob Karen O and other geeky 'I'm into my music' teen paraphernalia, I'm still reading Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, becoming introverted at work because of my jumble sale handbags and moaning because we've run out of Shreddies (arguably, this still happens in my 'grown-up' life, except, as the person who buys them, I've only myself to blame). This Friday evening the closest I've got to social activity is the handing out of my parents' mobile numbers to old college friends so they can gatecrash their weekend activities in Lincolnshire. I wasn't even invited. I think the only difference between my teenage self and my current state is that I've not hit the gin supplies. Not because drinking alone is a level of loser I've not yet reached, but because my parents have probably locked the cupboard. On the plus side, I've just found Ferris Bueller's Day Off on Film4.

Dead Zoo

This actually happened.

Bizarrely enough, a whole four weeks has passed and tomorrow I'm back on the National Express to northern civilization. How better to celebrate one final Shire weekend for a while than walking up a ludicrously steep hill, eating a burger made out of deer and visiting a Dead Zoo (Natural History Museum, Tring branch), all of which accompanied by beautiful weather?

The aforementioned weather resulted in some jogging inspiration this morning, and I'm happy to say that it seems the sheep and I may have come to a treaty of peace. No fearful bleats (apart from a stranded lamb; not my fault), no evil stares, and definitely no charging. Score.

Tring's Natural History museum is King of Victorian taxidermy. The Rothschild Family pretty much ruled this area of the Shire, and Walter was a big fan of killing and stuffing animals. All in the name of science, natch - they are arranged in zoological categories and squished into gloomy glass cages. It's ace. On the walls there is evidence of what ol' Walty did with those he chose to keep alive; like attach them to carts, let them roam in his vast estate, or take them to university with him in Cambridge (Kiwis only).

So, after checking up on another of my deceased Kakapo friends, saying yo to his buddy Mr. Kea and then discovering a load of other cool animal stuff I never knew (Elephant Seals are terrifyingly large, there's a cute sea thing called a Topknot, tiny birds were given amazing names and 100-year old Dachsunds are relatively stoutd hunt badgers)I had an informal chat with a smart pin-striped chap who was poking a mangy camel. He did work there.

Apparently, the camel was a potential victim of carpet lice, which like eating dead stuffed creatures as much as they do carpets. The camel might have to go into a giant freezer. This caused a line of questioning about where a new stuffed camel would come from, and apparently underneath the proper Natural History Museum in London there's a sub-world of back-up dead stuffed stuff. Like the less fluffy or cute-faced ones. I bet they just sit there, waiting for the carpet lice to bite so they can have their moment of glory. Whatever, I want to go, it sounds amazing.

In other news, Great Horwood reached local TV news fame this week for an armed siege in the village. There were helicopters and everything. However, judging by the fact that three police cars arrived when someone nicked a bottle of moisturiser off the reduced shelf in Buckingham Tesco Express a while back this isn't wholly representative.

Also, Nigel Farage, smarmy leader of UKIP who is challenging little speaker Bercow to Shire constituency came to our house. Daddy Bowlface refused to see him after Farage's nasty attack on the loveable President of the European Council 'Haiku Herman' Van Rompuy. Remember Nikki off Big Brother? He's pretty reminiscent of her in it.



Mummy Bowlface, however, quizzed him on how he was personally going to reduce her class sizes whilst telling him about her imaginary Polish friends. He didn't seem to understand that her village school is oversubscribed from inbreeds, rather than illegal immigrants. Arguably, if he had, he would have been wasting his breath. It's what isolation from Europe would result in eventually, after all.

Bowlday Sweat

.

Believe it or not, it's a year today since the first ever bowlpost. I know, gone fast, huh? No better way to celebrate, I thought, than reporting from the front line of post-run sweat. Mmmm. Birthday sweat for Bowlface, in honour of guilty pleasure song extreme Jeremih, 'Birthday Sex'. I think I'm pretty much the only person who's not fourteen and potentially 'gangsta' who wishes this was my ringtone, but hey, it's Bowlface's birthday and I can make it cry if I want to.

So, up-to-the-minute reportage on the Shire sheep front. I'd say unnervingly placid, but also present were a couple tractors and farmers. So maybe they were on good behaviour. Otherwise, there have been some lamb reshufflings, with new tiny baby lambs in field number three, and bleaty mcbleat lambs having mysteriously enlarged since Monday in field number six. The story continues.

Yesterday, however, saw my feelings to such livestock weaken as a gatecrashing of Stowe (stately home/mega public school) gardens resulted in some suitably posh lamb activity. They were fluffy, apparently innocent and did all the right kind of bleating, as in for their mums, rather than at me. Fortunately, when it came to scrambling over the Ha-Ha (if in doubt, there's an appropriate wiki entry here) there were no sheep nor official National Trust-looking types about to bleat, so a shred of dignity was maintained.

In a similar mode of 'days out', a.k.a, how best to avoid urgent deadlines in the name of family quality time, today the Bowlface family embarked upon Fulham Palace Gardens. Sad to say, no ancient wall activity was involved as it is entirely free and legal to enter the aforementioned, apart from perhaps those doing community service in the flowerbeds. Lambs replaced with small mini-Boden babies, and a fancy cup of tea in an oversized Georgian room later and I was all set for being Jane Austen in a breton top for the rest of the afternoon.

One last birthday treat for Bowlface regulars (because I'm guessing you can't get Jeremih's greatness out of your head) is another fantastically off-the-wall video launch from VBS's Vice Guide To Film.
Basically, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia's film-makers went freedom crazy after 60 years of state-approved Socialist Realism. Now known as Parallel Cinema, VBS's Shane Smith travelled to Moscow to interview its founders. There's a lot of pretending to be animals (probably what I've been doing for the last week, judging by the high sheep content) and booze, and as well as being a nice way to pass the time you can impress film geeks in the pub with all your new found knowledge.

Good News: no more groundhog day. Bad News: sheep will be my downfall

out. to. get. me.

So, it's almost a week on from when I feared my life had sunk into a inescapable cycle of repetition. I am glad to say that I don't think I will be stuck experiencing exactly the same situations over and over and over again. This also thankfully means that anyone reading this blog won't either. Phew.

Non-repetitive activities have involved American Apparel frequenting; slightly terrifying current affairs exams; trying to learn about current affairs for current affairs exams; hosting wild parent-free shire house shindigs; spending too much time standing up in Bicester Village and other more life affirming activities like first-time shopping for 'pants-magique' in a necessary Mother-Daughter ritual. With the exception of mentioning that QVC lies and that my podge did not disappear along with the capacity of my lungs, the less said about over sized, brutally lycrastic cycling shorts, the better.

Other evidence that my life has not turned into groundhog day comes in the changing forms of anxiety I cause amongst livestock during cross-country runs. For one, the aforementioned bleating has got considerably louder, to the extent it can be heard two fields away from the location of the sheep. But secondly, I seriously think they're onto me. On Tuesday there were six large ewes banked up in a wall of farmy fluff against the gate I had to move to get into the next field. After staring them out to no success I dived in amongst them. They reluctantly shuffled about, but they'll be plotting their next move, you wait. The lambs have started ganging up too. They may only be a foot and a half high but en masse I could be trampled to minor injury.

It is mainly this increasingly threatening behaviour that has resulted in me sitting here in 'sportswear' (next to the onesie, my second favourite house-confined outfit. Oh god, so comfy), listening to a running playlist, blogging, rather than actually taking to the fields. My reasoning being that darkness would fall by the time I returned, but that is clearly not going to happen, and it is evidently a beautiful evening. Secretly, however, I'm scared of what the sheep might be upto at night time. Evening-sleepy sheep are arguably more threatening than dozy morning sheep, they might have constructed a trap or something.

Maybe it's because I LOLled at roadkill earlier. It was, naturally, a pheasant. However, unlike most, which have mangled wings and blood etc etc, this one was lying dead straight (ha) looking skywards. Like he was sunbathing. He totally died for laughs.

In the meantime, I'm going to make like a gothy Sue Sylvester. (All my 'sportswear' is black so I can pretend I'm a ninja). Tomorrow, sheep, just you wait.

Also, anybody noticed something new? Hell yeah! The Shire has been officially located on Bowlface. Within the happy vagueness of a 'Vale' however - don't want any cyber-savvy woolly things to start uniting forces.

David Attenborough Live

Prime example of your normal hardcore 'horny pigeon' inner city stalking. Not, apparently, how they do it in the country.

Despite having little else but village life, parents and the internet as educative tools during my formative years, Shire experiences never cease to amaze me. Like, for instance, how right outside my window pigeons are performing a distinctly feeble version of Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On'.

As if Facebook, twitter, urban outfitter's newly-announced mid-season sale and green tea weren't distractions enough.

It's like a lame version of David Attenborough's Life down here. Except it's raining, and not super-heavy-monkeys-make-umbrellas-out-of-leaves rain, but thoroughly unwelcome grey not-yet-April showers. Furthermore, instead of close-ups, slow-downs and microshots (totes technical), I have a grubby window covered in intriguingly unidentifiable white stuff and a cut out silhouette of a hawk to stop fellow pigeons committing suicide by flying into it. This happened two Easters ago, leaving three All Saints-esque Gothic perfect pigeon prints with a collection of splayed wing/feet shots and, in one case, some poo.

It all started innocently enough with a bit of friendly grooming nestled inside the boughs of a Yew tree. Not dissimilar to that you'd see in the opening scene of Disney's animated classic Cinderella. Before I knew it, the dirty buggers were balancing on top of each other - scaly pigeon feet carefully placed into fluffy Shire-pigeon back plumage - and shaking whilst sliding down the lower one's back. Pretty weird. Mr Pigeon (I presume he was on top) was getting seriously puffed out by this point, in fact probably to the extent that lady pigeon flew away. That was it. Talk about anti climatic. He's been sat cooing miserably on the same branch ever since. He's still there, all the time I've been writing this. Loser.

In other news, I've found another reason why Heston Blumenthal and I should hang out. He writes today about his surprise at the lack of people getting excited about the asparagus season that's due to start in a month. I'M EXCITED, HESTON, I'M REALLY REALLY EXCITED. Furthermore, I've been really excited since February. Best kind of food spear around.

OH HAI HORWOOD

Three months on and the genre of Shire post returns. Quite a momentous occasion, actually, as this is the last University holiday in which the prospect of returning to Newcastle shines like a little black and white stripey light at the end of a Home Counties tunnel. Next time I'm down here it'll be all over - no more studenty goodness awaiting - and that's why I'm moving swiftly on to happier thoughts.

Like, the bitter, dark hilarity of the fact that I keep being invited to groups and fan pages on Facebook that concern my least favourite place in the world, Milton Keynes (MK). The Shire is located worryingly close to this postmodern nightmare of a city, only just into it's fortieth anniversary of existence. However, it is definitely, definitely, not 'home', as the group MK Is Not Much But It Will Always Be Home..... Big Up MK City!!!!! would like to suggest otherwise. This page pretty much sums up 'MK City' in a feebly-constructed piece of internet engineering. Like, for example, that Milton Keynes hasn't even been officially named a City yet - does it have a Cathedral? Does it have a University? - and that even its own citizens are happy to admit it's 'Not Much', whilst simultaneously making a string of posts along the lines of 'MK....City of Dreams', 'MK....City of Hidden Talent' and, my personal favourite, 'Forget London City....Its All About MK City'. The fact that illogical capitalisation and the mysterious four-dot ellipses are obligatory inclusions just adds something so special.

Anyway, after arriving into the rain-soaked MK temporary (although it's been there for three years, in which several thousand identikit houses have been built) bus station last night, I don't intend to return to Milton Keynes for at least ten days, and that will only be to go to the train station. After all, for the next month the Shire is acting as a kind of Tibetan monastery, out of which a good 12,000 words of academic brilliance and several pounds of happy flab are going to erupt from birdsong, broadsheet breakfasts and organic fowl-munching. The one irony of a university town being that attempting to do any kind of serious study in it is near impossible due to fun distractions such as society.

From here on in my dissertation breaks are going to be as follows: afternoons out to sites of national heritage, baking, girltime (best kind of distraction, usually involving Louis Theroux re-runs and duvets), charity shops and the occasional jaunt to London. And, of course, blogging. Get ready for near-daily updates on how many villagers have got an new dog/gained weight/started power walking.

ShireSnow

They don't know how lucky they are.

Yadda Yadda, I'm bored of the snow already. In a Shire context, it means slow roads, not enough of it to warrant any fun snow activity and being really cold. As for being in a Dolomite context...well we'll both find out next week.

The white stuff has pretty much summed up a totally Shire week. With the exception of nice parent-provided food and love and a bit of social activity as only these parts know best (watching David Attenborough and amazing kids' movies over 'chav deserts' - more on that later), it's been one long slog at Bicester Village and some guilt-ridden attempts to make a dissertation.

Bicester Village, as Bowlface regulars may know, provides an unwelcome second home to returning students and 'cheap' shopping for upper middle class types and tourists with dubious money. My top customers of the week were the Russians who paid for £700's worth of fur items in cash and the Iranian who fanned herself with sterling whilst propping a fur-clad thigh on the counter.

Back to the amazing kids' movies. Actually, Where The Wild Things Are is far more of a kids' film for adults - take a child along and it'll probably be confused throughout and thoroughly miserable by the end. I'm not going to stress this point too much; once Dazed and Confused have based an entire issue on Spike Jonze and Maurice Sendak's collaborative efforts Bowlface isn't really one to go there.

What the film did inspire, however, was a furthering of a onesie longing that has grown on me over the last few weeks. A onesie, in layman's terms, is essentially a babygro for adults. An all-in-one, jumpsuit, bodystocking kind of thing. I think the obsession started when I was hunting around for Baby Jesus outfits, and has subsequently grown through ebay hunting, onesie conversations with fellow fans, looking at the American Apparel website too much and, of late, the severe cold and my Mum emailing me onesie-related Womens' Hour news.

Max's wolf/wild thing suit in the film has taken this a whole step further. The onesie of dreams now has ears, fingerless gloves, monster feet, and, preferably, a tail attached. Oh, and it's got to be made out of snuggly snuggly fluff. It's all I want for Christmas.

Obligatory Festive Post

Technically, it's Boxing Day today in the Shirehome of Bowlface activity. This is because yesterday was fake Christmas, happening a good fortnight or so early due to festive travelling on Baby Jesus' actual birth. Double Christmas = good times.
Actually, it's more like triple or even quadruple Christmas, as I've been milking most Christmas-related excuses dry over the last couple weeks. Not least being the Christmas party, which we later discovered the best theme of a party ever. It's totally easy to do, I got to wear a nappy, like, comfiest thing, and we watched a hell of a lot of George Michael and weird Bowie festive videos.
Second Christmas activity came in the form of a carol service, usually one of my favourite parts of the season. However, outside of the Shire it would seem that students don't really sing and the festive spirit isn't quite right - even if there is an abundance of Greggs' mince pies. You live and learn. On the plus side, my mate was playing in the wind band, which was led by a seriously socially awkward conductor, which always makes for smiles.
The 'real' deal, however, was Fake Christmas. Essentially a cramming together of the normal two weeks of Christmas paraphernalia into a day. We went and got a tree in the morning, had decorated it to Band Aid by lunchtime and, after a walk, a load of rare beef and some slightly Cava-induced present opening, we could have created a music video. If Bowlface was of the sentimental blogging type, there would probably be something about the real message of Christmas and family love inserted here.

Latest Discovery: old cars drive old people wild.

Mr. Nash, clearly not in his natural environment.

The other night in the pub I remember explaining to someone who was propping up the bar that, no, despite my middle-England-middle-class accent and Shire come-from, I have never been skiing in my life and I certainly am not enamored with horses in any way, shape or form. Stinky, foot-treading, constantly-aroused creatures.

Instead of taking up reigns as a pony person, I spent my youth struggling with musical instruments, going to Brownies, eating cake mixture (as previously discussed), drawing incessantly and, as I said to this bloke, "playing with my Dad's cars".

This isn't as rebellious as it sounds. Daddy Bowlface has always had a vintage car in the garage. My siblings and I have always been driven about in them, had naps in the back of them, burnt the back of our thighs on hot leather seats during the summer and distracted DB when he's working on them. Indeed, with one particular model it became more of a game of "how many children can we chuck in the back of this thing?"

The garage has always had that inexplicable smell of car. Which is an amalgamation of oil, leather, hot metal and man-in-overall and is always lovely.

Anyway, since becoming only a temporary Shire resident, there have been fewer vintage car rides, what with one thing and another. I had forgotten quite what an impact a 1936 Frazer Nash would have in our local town.

So, donning several large cardigans and scarves, I squidged into the car and off we went. Getting the odd look from a white van man at a roundabout is pretty much obligatory with these things, so I didn't take much notice.

However, once we'd got into the 'historic centre' of town - i.e, where Woolworths used to be, and general hang out of the elderly - a whole new experience happened. Suddenly, an old man with a flat cap raised his walking stick at us and said "good morning". We didn't know who he was, but clearly the car was a justification for happy greetings.

Then, a herd of trolley-pushers paused, as if struggling to comprehend what the hell was going on when my Dad was parking the beast. It was as if they'd literally never seen something as old as them still working before.

Thus, looks and stares continued, along with cries of "what a lovely old car!" which is quite nice, I suppose. Clearly we brought something into their day, and, on a more sinister note, stunned them to the extent that I could have technically mugged them all by the time the handbrake was up.

I mentioned this to DB when we got home. He seemed most blase about it, "oh yes," he said, "most of them think it's an MG".

Mugging Cake Ladies

There's the glorified Shire dream.

My sister and I have always had this vision for when we're old and spinstery. Instead of going slowly round-the-bend alone, we'll live in a little house, have a couple of lapdogs to coo over and make and eat an incredible amount of cake. From that point on, we will decline slowly and happily into obese insanity and scare the local children. Kind of like the Gingerbread lady of Hansel and Gretl fame, but without paedophilia and cannibalism, natch.

The stimulus behind this quite possibly lies in Mary Berry. 50's celebrity cook supreme, and writer of the best baking Bibles on which the Bowlface home is founded on. I swear I was weaned the day I discovered there was a bowl to lick.

Much to my hysterical delight, local Shire town Winslow decided to open its newly debuted Farmers' Market with the cake goddess herself. Upon hearing this news in the Shire rag, the date was firmly marked on the Bowlface calendar and we were going to meet our cakey idol, goddammit.

It seemed few other people shared my excitement. In fact, I had to explain to practically everyone just WHO Mary Berry was. However, come Sunday morning, the gathering crowds implied just one thing: the Shire was hot for celebrity, and it came elderly-shaped.

That's some serious ribbon-cutting action right there.

There were about 300 people there, at 10.30am on a Sunday, which pretty much sums up the priorities of Shire folk. People hadn't come so much to buy overpriced offal as to gawp at all the other locals, have a gossip, take numerous increasingly-trodden-on dogs out and, the wee 5% that were left, to get some celebrity chef action.

She was literally one of the cutest things I've ever seen. My mum liked her jacket, but a tiny 5'1'' vision in pink was only slightly disappointing in comparisons to my hoping she would have baked her own clothes. After holding a clearly nerve wracking speech about EC funding (to great cheers of 'hear hear' - I can't believe that even happens outside of costume dramas) and pigs etc, we got down to the nitty gritty and pounced on that cake lady.

I'm not that kid with the eyepatch, by the way. She was my competition.

It was amazing. She congratulated my mum on covering her cookbooks in plastic, signed them with 'best wishes' (although not 'love', which someone else got...we'll gloss over that), and left a whole lot of joy in my heart that even cake can't reach.

Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows: The day I became a sweet shop lady

She looks miserable in comparison to the glee on my face yesterday

Most people don't like to work on Bank Holidays. In fact, working on Bank Holidays normally comes within those lists of things people hate. Granted, if you work in some large corporate company selling disposable fashion items work in some large corporate company selling disposable fashion items you normally get double pay or something to ease the pain of serving everyone enjoying one massive paid day off. However, it's still pretty painful.

That is, unless, you've not yet reached the gruelling schedule of a nine to fiver, Dolly Parton's epic workplace tune presents a distant, quaint-sounding situation and you don't live for the weekends. For those people, like me, Bank Holidays are just when every road, service and public transport facility is at breaking point in desperate attempt to aid people's optimistic plans for the day.

Therefore, when I was offered to make some cash by working in a sweet shop on the Bank Holiday, I was pretty keen. In fact, that's an understatement. I made sure I'd picked exactly the right kind of vintage floral dress for the occasion, to make the living of the sweet lady dream even, well, sweeter.

Things got even better when it became apparent that, as temporary staff, I had no boring responsibilities such as restocking, cleaning, visual merchandising etc and was literally told to 'make myself sick' on as many free sweets as possible. That, and the nice wad of cash I got shoved before being told to 'close when it gets quiet'. Best negligent boss ever.

So, the afternoon passed fairly quickly, dishing out a few hundred grams of fizzy strawberries here, some white mice there, trying to persuade a small spaniel that flying saucers are much better than they smell, and other such sweet lady duties, all in an increasingly dizzy haze brought on by incessantly inhaling sugar.

Thus, at a slightly premature end to the day - it did get quiet - I headed home with a fairly bad case of post-kid's-party syndrome, caused solely by the combination of too many edible chemicals, and that slightly furry metallic taste which is what your mouth makes when it craves salt. Both were a small price to pay for basically being Mr. Ben for the day. It doesn't stop there, I'm living the dream at NME's offices this week - my inner sixteen year old is LOVING IT.

Things I hear in the pub: #2, Arguments about Feminism

I bet they'd just say the tits are better on the bird behind the KP peanuts.

Saturday night, and the second of my twice-weekly shifts behind the bar in my local. Again, the German men were in, trying out every type of ever-changing local ale, which prompted yet another discussion of their origin. At risk of repeating the last post, I'll keep it to a quotation, 'well, I suppose they can't be Dutch, their shoes aren't made of wood'.

Eventually the group of slightly entertaining middle-aged men dwindles to one increasingly drunk old man who repeated everything he's already said in the past four hours. I would have thought little about his incomprehensible ranting had I not come home to an email with the subject heading 'a woman is worth half of a man'. This was clearly some kind of begging charity email that I guiltily discarded to my junk mail, attempting to lure in money with a shocker of a subject. However, it chimed in with Mr. Drunky's last rant before popping round to the rival Shire pub for Karaoke.

Claiming himself the epitome of chivalric behaviour - which is obviously why he was staring at my chest on a Saturday evening rather than spending quality time with his wife and son - he was bemoaning the lack of gentlemen in my generation. Although I agreed with him that holding doors open and being polite were admirable qualities in a man, there was a point of contention when he said he refused to accept drinks from women. Clearly plenty offer to buy him them ALL the time.

In short, I found myself getting onto a metaphorical feminist soapbox, arguing that if he deems women equal why are they not worthy to buy a man, and especially such a questionable specimen as himself, a pint with their career-woman money?

I'm no raving feminist. Indeed, having sat through half an hour of a woman shouting 'I AM A WOMAN. I HAVE A VAGINA, I MENSTRUATE, AND HELL, I EVEN MASTURBATE SOMETIMES' in between Simone De Beauvoir quotations during a first year Feminist Literary Theory lecture, I'm yet to work out my view on this broad and quite frankly, dangerous, territory. I'm quite scared of feminists and I'm a girl. Yet, I found myself embodying that same lecturer on Saturday night, banging my fist on the bar with the same ferocity she hit the lectern.

I'm clearly never going to be cut out to be the giggly, bosomy bar maid, but there just aren't many girl-friendly pubs round here. Maybe I'll leave a copy of The Female Eunuch hidden amongst The Daily Mail next time I'm working.

Things I hear in the pub: #1, Casual Racism

Ebony and Ivory...

Somehow, casual racism has worked its way into the family sense of humour. That sounds bad, I know. We're not actually racists. We don't even read the Daily Mail or anything.

However, a small, unbelievably Caucasian village in middle England is the type that breeds, 'I'm not a racist, but...' friendly xenophobia.

It's the kind of ignorant friendly xenophobia that arises when there are so few non-white, English people that they become a kind of weird novelty when they do arrive. Although, in the 'Shire a new dog or increased villager body mass becomes a major talking point. Over the last three shifts I've worked in my local I've spent approximately thirty-four minutes discussing how many wasps there are this year, and another twelve minutes regarding the different spray deterrents available and their comparative benefits.

So, earlier on, in reference to the news headline of a population increase, Daddy Bowlface made the hilarious (it did eek a snort out of me, actually) joke of, 'I bet they're all forin' [sic]. Yes, this is obviously hugely politically incorrect, but funny because it's not from an origin of real racism, and because most funny jokes are politically incorrect. I clearly don't laugh when Geordie taxi drivers have a go at Polish 'spring rolls' - where that slang came from I've no idea - or decide to generate a National Front rally in the middle of the city.

Returning to the novelty of non-Shire folk, and pub conversations, we had a couple of guys drinking outside who, OMG, weren't English. Thus ensued a hushed narrative from the landlady:
'Now, there's a couple of...gentlemen sitting outside, and they want to eat, and I had to tell them that we don't start serving until six thirty. But they're not English, you see, I think they're German, or maybe Dutch. So I don't think they understand.'

They understood perfectly well. They were also Norwegian, despite another hushed, heavily accented conversation regarding the differences and similarities between Dutch and German accents. I don't think any of the over-sixties taking part had ever really met a Dutchman or a German before, however, I'm sure this conversation was repeated to everyone they met for the next two days, a la wasp.

Banana Guards: one of the more unusual teenage embarassments

I shuddered when I opened the paper on the culture pull-out today. In fact, I stared, shuddered, and then swiftly turned over the brightly coloured image of a Lakeland Plastics Banana Guard, below, so the builder wouldn't see me looking at it.

Thing is, in yellow, and as someone happily beyond adolescence, Banana Guards, "designed to accommodate virtually every shape and size", almost make sense. They also only look slightly obscene, in the kind of way that people desperate to make weak phallic jokes may pick up on.

However, when I whipped out a pink Banana Guard, aged 14, at school during morning break, I was the victim of much dildo-related accusation for a week; which feels very long when acne is the closest thing you've got to boobs, and you're still not entirely sure what a dildo is.

After such an incident, my stocking filler got thrown to the back of the Tupperware cupboard where I believe it still gathers dust. By this morning's reaction, I don't think I'll be taking it out any time soon.

However, the following double-page spread regarding Lakeland Plastics was something that brought a far greater warmth to the heart. I am the grateful spawn of a Lakeland Plastics fan. In fact, I swear our kitchen and the amazing foody treats that come out of it are in part built by Lakeland Plastics.

Whenever Mummy Bowlface comes home wielding a new Lakeland item, I am invariably hugely sceptical. Take, for example, the banana bag. It's pictured in its natural habitat - our fridge - below. Known affectionately as the 'banana sleeping bag', one of Family Bowlface's staple foods, the banana, is kept to perfect conditions in this contraption, and doesn't send off any bad banana fumes to the other fruit. Apparently.

That's pie it's squishing, by the way. Not meat, as it may appear to be.

Initially I accused the purchaser of wasting money on ridiculous novelty kitchen items, but, if used in the proper way, rather than being forgotten about - I won't eat stuff if I can't see it - it is quite good.

Clearly, had I not experienced such aversion to it so young in life, I would be one of the thousands of Banana Guard fans. Or even taken it as far as, G Harper, who commented online, "wish I had invented the banana guard!"

Having just caught myself getting all interested over silicone cupcake moulds I think the Lakeland-lover gene will inevitably out. Just think what they will have invented in ten years' time...!