During the week, I attempted to introduce some students to the art of Cockney Rhyming Slang, of which I am no expert myself. I learnt many things, they on the other hand did not learn very much and now think everyone in South London is a poet, or absolutely balmy and should stop drinking warm beer. Either way, it was a roaring success and now I have tribes of German children telling people to 'stop rabbiting on'.
When I was younger (as in, up to the last time I had a chance to speak to my Dad; 1 day still counts as younger...) he would continually tell me that I had 'more rabbit than Sainsburys', and I would secretly laugh at him despite the fact I was getting told off. I thought he was mad: 'errrrr Daddy, Sainsburys don't even SELL rabbits!', and would merrily continue with my aimless one sided babbling, much to his displeasure.
Now, anyone clued up enough to know that 'rabbit' clearly refers to 'rabbit and pork', which obviously means 'talk', will understand what my wonderful father was saying.
Older, not much wiser, yet still monopolising the rabbit market, I realised that when I'm writing, 99.9% of the time I do not know to whom I am writing; I merely just keep going on until my fingers hurt or I run out of things to write, or realise that I am just writing to myself and that the whole process is a little comical. Not only do I own more rabbits that Sainsburys, but also Waitrose and the local butcher (Tescos and Morrisons aren't posh enough to stock rabbit).
But maybe there's method to my madness. Maybe by unleashing the rabbits onto the big wide web, I will save my poor boyfriend from premature deafness, and leave reminders to my 60 year old self about what happened in my 22 year old brain. I am writing to the future me; I want to remind myself of all the fabulous things I have done and seen, all the weird and wonderful people I have met, the best and worst beers I have consumed, the reasons I should or shouldn't be allowed to drink tequila, the colour of the best sunset this spring, the smell of currywurst, the feeling of freezing snow being blasted down your neck, and the sweet euphoria of sniding a coffee before a lesson at 7.30am with 28 moody 13 year olds.
I haven't written a lot recently, because I have been having too many adventures. I'm sorry to brag, but that is the truth. One day I will have to be a grown up and earn proper money in a proper job, and it will probably be pants, so I may as well enjoy myself while I can. With that in mind, I am going to try and write about every adventure I have had since the first adventure here in Germany, and I'm going to call the whole collection:
"the Rabbit House Incident (whereby myself and Samuel woke up in a house full of rabbits)"
That much, at least, is true on a sunny day. Even the resident chavs and emos in the park cracked a grin my way when I inanely flashed them my widest grin and then carried on humming to myself. On second thoughts, they probably just thought I was crackers.
As the earth warms up, it seems everyone's moods do too - even if it's just for a little while. Snow is forecast to make its unwelcome return next week, so it's as if everything is living twice as hard while they have the sun on their backs.
The birds are singing twice as loud. (As I write this I can barely hear myself think. Ducks vs. Sparrows, I have a feeling. The ultimate standoff. The ducks are winning on the noise levels, the sparrows on the quality and variety of tone.)
The old men playing chess are bellowing insults at the children with twice as much gusto.
The boys playing football are using twice as many swearwords.
The gossiping Italian women are throwing their arms twice as wide in exclamation. (Oh my God the sun is shiiiiiiiningggg!)
There are twice as many couples bickering lovingly on the streets, and I've spotted twice as many stolen kisses at the back of classrooms.
Everything has been swept up in this sudden tide of warmth, and for the first time in a long time, the world is trembling with life.
Sometimes in life, I wish I was a normal human who went about life in a normal, round about way. Someone who didn't accidentally flash her boobs on her bike and not realise for a whole minute in rush hour, or get her skirt stuck on a chair leg at the front of class (consequently showing her knickers to a group of 15 boys), or get compared to Bridget Jones by her closest friends and family.
I sometimes wonder what it would be like to relate my latest night out, or night in, without a catastrophic crescendo - or describe this disaster to a friend who is utterly shocked and surprised, rather than awaiting the moment at which I inevitably tumble from grace. Wouldn't it be lovely so be able to say that I didn't fall down a whole flight of stairs; or turn my hair orange; or turn my hair purple; or sing James Blunt's You're Beautiful to a group of apparent strangers whilst sober; or knock myself out on a bedside table; or a thousand other disgustingly embarrassing events that only people like me could commit.. Wouldn't that be marvellous.
But.
But sometimes, very rarely, I revel in the fact I am very much not a normal human being.
On Valentine's day, I had one of the best 24 hours of my life.
I was whisked away to Strasbourg in France; wined, dined, spoiled. On the surface, how very romantic and sickening it all looks. My teeth hurt from even looking at the screen.
Reality dictates a rather different picture once you scratch a little deeper than the Facebook-photo facade; wine-drunk, food-stuffed, tequila-spoiled. We spent the day being dazzled by the beauty of the city, and the night dazzling others with our beautiful 4am renditions of 'Angels' by Robbie Williams (guitar solo on knees included). Our inner-weirdness couldn't be tamed, not even on the day we were meant to be a lovey dovey new couple enjoying their first V-day together. Not even France could help us. What felt like 40000000 tequila shots, 2 bottles of wine and 6 beers later, we were cheering couples leaving the night early to shag, screaming 'are you guna bang doe' in their ears, whilst on a floating boat Discotheque. So. Bloody. Romantic. That isn't even to mention getting home to write 'Jo iz wicked' on the bathroom mirror, before passing out starfish style face down on the bed.
Having said all that, then having looked through hundreds of other people's beautiful V-day photos on facey-b, I would not change a thing. Not everyone's cup of tea, no, but we had fun and that is surely all that matters.
I then today found a video posted online by one of my sister's friends - she is a very pretty 14 year old, who obviously has far too much time. The video was called 'hot or not', whereby she systematically denounced people she went to school with as either 'hot', or 'ugly'. I am not sure if I have missed something here, or if I have become 84 overnight, but isn't that a trifle over-the-top and judgemental? Christ knows what catagory she would have put me in; 'mentally unstable gin addicted minger'?
Having been a 14 year old girl who obsessively wrote a diary about absolute crap, I can tell you that it is not necessary for other young women like her to make you feel a gremlin. You need only look in the mirror to pinch imaginary rolls of fat, squeeze phantom spots and put concealer over invisible stretch marks to know that you are actually the ugliest creature to ever grace the planet and that you will never get a boyfriend because you are interested in poetry and don't speak like an airhead.
Silly girl, don't call other people names. It's just not attractive.
Why should I, or anyone else for that matter, ever compare myself to anyone else? If doing things you enjoy is considered strange, then I wholeheartedly choose to be a weirdo, knicker flashing and penny swallowing included.
Whilst reassessing my life this morning, I realised that I have no talents. And that isn't meant in the way of 'wah wah I have no talents, please someone massage my ego', because that is rather dull; I mean, if I was stuck on a desert island, I would be able to offer nothing in the way of entertainment, unless you count being the only human on earth to be able to commit every social faux pas in the space of 5 minutes as something amusing.
Rewind four glorious years, and you will encounter a prime example of the extraordinarily awkward social behaviour being used as means of entertainment by yours truly. Victoria Station Weatherspoons; approximately 11.30pm; group of loud teenagers drinking and being annoying; Joanna Ford.
This group of loud teenagers were doing their usual drunk teenager thing, drinking and telling jokes and being loud. In the midst of such group stood myself, and not knowing the group very well, I decided to arm myself with rather a lot of dutch courage. One young man dared me to swallow a penny, and not having anything better to say for myself, I did. I swallowed a dirty old 1989 penny. I proudly stuck out my tongue and showed him that it'd disappeared, to which he replied;
"You're going to have to swallow another, I didn't see you do it."
Sometimes, I am not very intelligent. I swallowed a second, with not much success. Rather awkwardly, I ended up choking and spluttering and gagging in the middle of the pub. Oh so attractive; you're SO funny - what a joker. Next thing I know, a female friend's fingers are down my throat and there's a big 'ole kerfuffle. NHS direct were not too impressed with my early morning phone call, and advised me to drink a couple of liters of coke to dissolve the metal chilling out in my stomach. What an anti-climax.
This whole shenanigan revolved around me trying to be funny, or vaguely entertaining. If I had owned a talent, in one form or another, this would never have happened. I could have broken out into all singing razzmatazz tap dancing, and stunned them all into silence. Or, I could have sang them a little ditty and made them cry with joy at my angelic tones. Oh no, I swallowed a penny and it got stuck. Fantastic.
With this in mind, I want to present you with a real talent, so you can all see what I am aiming to achieve. This time next year, I will have stopped losing passports on border control; stopped major airport security breaches; stopped swallowing pennies; and stopped re-enacting scenes from Bridget Jones' diary every time a drop of alcohol touches my lips. I will be FABULOUS, just like my friend Caroline.
She is undeniably beautiful.
It does not take a long period of time for you to fall in love with her presence; I do not know one person who has come into contact with her and has not fallen in love, but for many, if they have not been ensnared by her rather addictive personality, they are caught by her voice. Tangled in a web of silky threads that no-one really wants to struggle away from.
I'm quite happy here. These silky threads have me tightly in their grip and I can feel my eyes filling with tears, but I'm quite happy to stay here. Keep singing; I know I'm witnessing something incredible.
Real talent needs to be recognised, and Caroline, I am recognising you as someone to aspire to be like. When I sing in the shower, my darling mother knocks on the door to ask if I'm crying. (No Mum, I was actually busting out my best rendition of 'Baby Love'.)
This voice makes grown men cry:
Please watch, enjoy and cry - there will be more on Caroline's work soon.
With only ten days 'til the long awaited return home to my wonderful Heimat, England - aka magical-place-of-dreams, fifteen days 'til Christmas and twenty one days 'til the End of the World (depending on which rumour you listen to), it is all too easy to lose touch with reality and become caught up in a whirlwind of self inflicted moroseness.
It is a commonly known fact that I am a whinger - as are 99.9% of the British population. Nothing is ever 'alright', even though we insist on a daily basis that it is. It's snowing on Christmas Day for the first time in fifty years, "Bloody freezing"; it's a blazing hot day, the cricket's on and the Pimms is flowing from magical pop up springs, "Too bloody hot for my liking..."; it's raining after a four week midsummer drought, "This country is bloody awful - always bloody raining." Christmas is a prime example of just how whiney and ridiculous we all are, and I will put myself forward as the chief candidate for Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome.
Let's be perfectly honest, my life is fabulous, yet I fail to see on a daily basis the utter virtues of the lifestyle I lead.
Reasons my life is wicked:
1. My family are healthy, happyish, and I love them. We throw strops over monopoly, and it's cool. They are the never ever ending link between my past and future. 2. My friends are healthy, happyish and I love them. We do not argue (apart from whether sand in Fuetaventura is imported from the Saraha or not) and they are always armed with buckets loads of gin&tonic formed support. 3. I live the dream; it's snowing, there's a Christmas market at the end of my road, I live in Germany, every weekend is an adventure. 4. It's Christmas. 5. I go to University and have unbounded chances in life. 6. I am young and can get away with doing ridiculous things, such as locking myself in a toilet cubicle for 20 minutes 'cause I'm too drunk, without it having a serious effect on anyone. (Sorry and thank-you to Sam for rescuing me and paying my wine bill...)
Reasons my life is pants:
1. I miss my family. 2. I miss my friends. 3. I'm dreaming of England and Bovril and bramley apple sausages and chicken pie and Walkers crisps and salted butter and custard creams and Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and crumpets and Wispa bars... 4. I haven't bought my Christmas presents yet. 5. I have so much Uni work to do I feel like I could jump into a pool of it and have a little swim around. 6. I am 22 in less than a month, which renders it valid for me to be affectionately called 'Granny Joanney', 'Gran Attack' and 'Joan' by my friends.
As we can see from this clear layout of 'Wicked vs. Pants', wicked wins every time, yet I seem to only ever mention the negative. Is this a British psyche? Or am I just miserable?
As I look out of my little window to the torrents of snow cascading from the sky, listening to the sounds of teenage boys lobbing lumps of snow at squealing gaggles of teenage girls, my immediate thoughts are of disgust and despair at the prospect of having to venture into the icy nightmare and negotiate my way through the hoards of hormonal snowball fights. But why? Whilst reassessing this situation, I scald myself for being such a bore and grumpy guts. What would the seven year old Joanna make of my current opinions? Surely it is clear as gin that snow is perfectly beautiful; virgin white, dousing everything with untouchable silence and reverence, and that the high pitched screams are just as pure; sounds of utter delight and excitement and potential love. Shaking my head, I dismiss these thoughts as vile; snow serves one decent observation - how many people actually piss up the side of trees.
I am not sure how we tackle this Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome - it seems too deep rooted in our mindsets. As we hustle and bustle and jostle our way through the shops in the dying days before the day of all days, it seems that all we can think about is the immediate and impending stress of it all. In this one rare moment of mental clarity during a horrific snowstorm tucked in a remote corner of SW Germany no-one at home even cares to know exists, I think of all the people hustling and bustling and jostling for a bargain, and want to cry.
Christmas is about love - every advert and television programme and film rams that point down our throats - but what does that actually mean? I highly doubt that it is practically slapping the woman next to us in contest for the last pair of cashmere gloves in the John Lewis sale. So why do we forget? Why can't we all just wake up on Christmas morning and appreciate the loved ones we have neglected for the rest of the year? Is it so hard to forget the presents, and the money, and the food, and the stress, and see the bliss in the eye of a stranger when we do something kind for them?
There are no conclusions to my observations, only vague and distant hopes.
I hope to forget my adult cynicism and dissatisfaction. I hope to love more and moan less. I hope to one day fully enjoy the beauty of snow. I hope that everyone this Christmas forgets their made up and imagined problems, remembers everything good that has ever happened to them and has a bloody good time.
We went to a bar where they had 23 varieties of gin on offer for the perusal and pleasure of the merry customers. I was a very merry customer.
Who seriously needs 23 varieties of gin?
This girl.
This girl is hooked on life. Life which is dizzying, petrifying, heartbreaking, heartmaking, sleepless, anxious, toe-wriggling, eye-glistening, stomach-churning, blinding, winding, ever-changing, unpredictable, inspirational, breathtaking, choking, suffocating, intoxicating, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, mindblowing and beautiful.
