P.S - Rabbits

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)"

Just thought I'd warn ya.

- Jo

Valentine.

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.

Last night.

Things I remember from last night:

- Oktoberfest.
- Beer.
- Drunk Mark.
- Being really hot.
- Being really cold.
- A random hut party in the woods.
- Inviting myself and Sam to stay at someone's grandparent's house.
- Tequila.

Things I do not remember from last night:

- How we got to the random hut party in the woods.
- Who I was talking to in the random hut.
- When we left the Oktoberfest.
- Where the new German girl is now.
- Where drunk Mark is now.
- Where the Grandparent's house is.
- Why I was in the woods drinking in a hut.
- Tequila.