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.

Yes, yes I am Teri Hatcher.

Sociology Flatmate thinks that he might have got confused because Lois Lane was a journalist.

Students don't relish in Bank Holiday weekends. Especially ones in May. Especially ones that were spent in Berlin this time last year. Sad, slightly bitter evidence that my life is thankfully not Groundhog Day. As a result, I'm sat blogging under a blanket (where did Spring go?) having consumed half a can of sweetcorn to constitute 'tea', rather than attending any of the five events facebook claims I am.

Might also be because I'm a little weary from working the door at a Crystal Antlers gig last night. The air of authority Sociology Flatmate and I must have unwillingly given off can only have come from How to Communicate Effectively. Man, that book is potent. Anyway, after most of the bandmates had incomprehensively nattered to us all night about how 'totally spaced out' and Californian they were, Guinness, other people's incomprehensible accents and 'Harlem douchebags at parties that, like, steal beer tokens and party in their own rooms?!', we finally got round to seeing them and they were grreeaaaattt. And more than a little naked. We disappointed them all by refusing vague 'party' offers, and oh boy am I glad because the walk home via the all-night pizzaria was an encounter with a walking cliche I hope never to forget.

Mr. Stag Night was apparently sober. He was, naturally, in a blonde eighties mullet wig, muttering racist abuse at the pizza chaps and had an air of mild aggression. Halfway through ordering the cheapest pizza on the menu (margherita, 10", £3.80. God bless Newcastle), classic 'ice-breaker' arrived in the form of: 'are you off the tel-leh?' Having not yet achieved that level of fame, I answered no, obviously. He clearly thought I was lying: 'You are. Superman's girlfriend.' Uh-huh. 'What, Lois Lane?', 'Yeah!'. Seeing as I was six when I last remember watching the early 90s Superman series, the chances of me acting as a full grown woman in it is highly unlikely. I asked him if he thought Teri Hatcher would be scrabbling around in her purse for two pound coins in an all-night pizzaria in Newcastle's (arguably more salubrious) student suburb. He replied by asking 'if he looked like Pat Sharp'. When we said yes, asking if he was meant to be him, he said 'no'.

This, however, just encouraged a whole new line of talk. Turned out matey was up from Burnley on a stag weekend. Except that he'd been thrown into a police cell since 11.30 am for 'no reason' - "the police said they'd tell me later, but they didn't". They let him out, but only after giving him a cheese and tomato sandwich. I didn't want to suggest that perhaps he'd found himself passed out in Greggs and hadn't been arrested at all. Apparently, he'd only adopted the wig after being let out of the 'cells'. Then there was another conversation about who's stag night it was, 'James Edwards', obviously (we later found out he went to school with him) and another about how Sociology Flatmate MUST like gravy because she's 'northern'; how I 'sounded like one of his mates [he] met travelling, who was from Sussex, or Essex, or Northampton' and I'm a representative for the whole of the UK south of Burnley, as well as being Teri Hatcher. Wowzers, she's a busy lady.  

Isotopically Heavier: I want to emigrate.

I think the fact that this brings me so much joy is indicative of what institutionalised education can do to people.

If this had a bowl on its face people wouldn't be able to tell us apart.

Fun fact for you: a millionaire lecturer in the Marine Biology department of Newcastle University discovered that if you starve yourself, you become isotopically heavier.

I don't really know what this means, but it's what my flatmate just said because she's actually doing some revision, and I opened Bowlface out of procrastination at the same time. What are the chances?

As well as fun science facts I pretend to understand, my brain is also full of racist children's literature from 1930 and (woah, another fun science fact, bone structure can tell you what you've been eating for the past fifteen years) the fact I want to be where all my friends are right now which is both Canada and New Zealand. Canada more so.

This is mainly because four of my friends are wandering around there in varying amounts of plaid, but still enough that people keep thinking they're in a band, and because it's doing fun snow, rather than lame snow, and it's really pretty and there are no exams on racist children's literature. They've got a really great blog about how much of a really great time they're having here. I think it might become like the Julia Childs one, except people won't send them food because they've clearly got far too much of that already.

NZ is where fellow Bowlface sibling is kicking around. It looks lush. But one particular attraction is that they're going to forests where Lord of The Rings was filmed and it looks mega ethereal and another slightly racist children's book I'm being examined on is The Hobbit.

The main attraction, however, is these grumpy looking superbirds that are apparently related to my favourite endangered animal THE KAKAPO (the brains behind fourplayincanada.blogspot also have a Kakapo-dedicated blog) and they eat loads of stuff apparently. Plus look at that face. Amazing. The sibling was kind enough to send me a trans-hemispheric text message saying "guess what I'm 2ft away from? The waddling flightless parrot! So cute and fat!" and then, the best bit, an educational fact: "they are called Keas".

The aforementioned blog has some fairly Kea-abusive stuff to say along the lines of them being preppy try-hard varieties of Kakapo. But then it's coming from a self-referential man-child who thinks he's a bird. That's the state of zoology graduates these days. Hootface, I say bring it on.

Oh, and another fun fact to end on: Starfish reject their limbs in a squidgy fleshy pink kinda way when they're cross at you. My science flatmate had a dream her dog's head did it.

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.