Size fourteen leggings don't make me happy.

My mother says they look nice on me, but I am rankling at the idea of defeat- I should be wearing size twelve, ten, eight, not size fourteen. I am disgusted with myself and she is happy at my choice of clothing that I had no choice in really at all.

Sometimes I do wonder if I am schizophrenic.

I write this at work, it's a rainy day. If someone peers in through the pane of glass at my window, they can see a red haired girl (woman) in a pair of black culottes, black tights and a cashmere white jumper, shrunken in the washing machine that used to belong to her mother. She hasn't bothered with makeup today and her skin looks dull and blotchy, jewellery is also absent. She sometimes straightens her posture, or takes a swig of water from her bottle. I am very bored, and boring probably.

A thousand beautiful things.

Not quite a thousand, but definitely a single one. My parents love me, and I think they respect me as well. I used to think that they were always a little bit ashamed of me; I've never been the prettiest child, I've never been the most sociable. I suppose that I thought that they were embarrassed by my lack of social ability, though I have friends, I can't work them out like my brother can. I am clever, but not so astronomically that this excuses my other failings. I took to drama and dance, which are things that showcase chubbiness, and my other shortcomings instead of eschewing them. I think my parents would have liked me to be sporty, and well liked by everyone, out in the world. And I am out in the world, but this happens to be my own world. I do know that they are proud of me and that they love me; it's just the way they react to my brother's guitar playing, and they don't seem to care about what I do. I mentioned I'm writing two stories, and they just became silent. They're not as happy with my academia as they were, I'm not a shining star anymore. Who am I kidding? The more I analyse it, the more of a disappointment I feel I am. I feel that I estrange myself from them every time I talk about drama, when my brother brings them closer. I still do feel embarrassed, about dancing and drama, I feel that any performances I am in they are dragged into because they love me, but honestly, if I'm not onstage I know they'll be hating it. They say on the night that it's good, but they never mention it again. I'm always saying that I wish I was an actress like..., but they never say, "you could be" or anything like that. So I am either a bad actress or so ugly that it would be futile for me to attempt.

They're always saying they think I'm beautiful, and how proud they are. But it's a different pride, a pride that I'm out in the world, or just that I can be nice. I detest nice people, they're so vulnerable. I don't think that they think I'll succeed; they always worry that I'll be lonely, or that my money is running out, or that I'm not running my life as effectively as I should.

And I've got silly ambitions. I do want to be an actress, it's true, and I daren't tell them. I don't know how because I won't have money to go to drama school, and if I've not been noticed yet I never will be. I want it so much, there are thousands who do as well, and thousands that are better than me. I don't know what to do. I don't want to be one of those girls that tragically gets ideas above her station, but my time is running out to decide what to do.

Things to be thankful for.

I am a Pollyanna at heart. I enjoy playing the glad game, which is very simple. Whenever you like, one must think of things to make one glad. I am not thanking anyone, such as God. I am just appreciating the world. Anything can do.

1. I am glad that I am at University
2. I am glad for opportunities
3. I am glad I found acting.
4. I am glad for my health, and that of those I love.
5. I am glad for my eyebrows, and the dark spot in my eye.
6. I am glad for the tolerant state of Britain.
7. I am glad I have got friends I love.
8. I am glad I am not heavier. (I don't know if this one counts because it is a negative).
9. I am glad of my independence.

Shrek and child abduction.

This is about the Madeleine Mc Cann furore, of the abduction being publicised before Shrek three.

I don't think it was at all necessary. Apparently the advert was given a rating of U, which I don't concur with. The difference between a video dealing with child abduction and Shrek is that abduction represents an actual threat to the child, whereas Shrek operates at a vague remove from reality, as a safe way for children to experience scary situations. Children are exposed to enough without being exposed to this as well.

That, and I don't think that Madeleine McCann needs any more publication, she has permeated every section of society recently. She is in newspapers, on television and in shop windows. We don't need constant awareness of her plight forced to the forefront of our minds, and I'm tempted to say that it might be some sort of scam to make us more thankful for what we have, that we don't have a child that is god-knows where.

The national grief-mongering is simply disgraceful. I like to think of myself as left-wing, but I am reminded of 1984 when I hear of some events surrounding it; a child of ten in my sister's class sold ribbons at a wedding to make money for the McCann appeal. This reeks of sanctimony and smugness, of an emotional competing- my child is more sensitive than yours- when in fact, it is merely that one child is out to grasp a fragment of fame that comes with the emotional pornography so readily distributed in daily papers. The Diana debacle also reeks of whining; she is dead. Let's all get on with it instead of this yearly catharsis that blights my summer. And if we must have some sort of morbid festival, why on earth not for someone truly deserving, such as Mother Teresa, instead of a woman who was pretty and possibly kind? Nobody knows what Diana was like behind closed doors except her family, and it should fall to them to mourn her as they choose instead of the whimpering handed out in chunks to the whole nation. Britain is becoming disgustingly emotional.

I feel that I have done enough whining, and I acknowledge the irony of this post being a diatribe, and a catharsis in itself, whinging about other's whinging. So let us speak of happier things. I have been offered both work experience and a job interview today, both of which bode well. I managed to stay under my calorie count, and off sugar for today, which are wonderful and make me feel less spotty and slightly less bloated already. Britain, though terribly hand-wringing, is far more tolerant of racial and sexual ambiguity than previously. More people are entering higher education. I am headed for a 2.1 degree, possibly a first. I am healthy, touch wood, as is my family, touch wood. I have got a set of friends, a few sets, that I completely adore.

Sluggish.

I've had an ugly day today. There has been too much consumption and too little moving, things just aren't exciting here. I eat moderately when I'm not bored, or feeling bad about myself. I am going to give up sugar again, from tomorrow, because what I'm eating is getting ridiculous. I feel sluggish and lethargic and none of my clothes fit right either. I hate the beginning of summer, it marks a slow descent of weight maintenance. My Mum took me shopping, and though she said I looked lovely in lots of things, I didn't feel quite right.

I was thinking about this. I only like to buy clothes when I am reasonably sized. This means that I don't consider myself worth the investment when I'm not. I desperately need to do some more exercise.

Beautiful

There is something intrinsically beautiful about the pallid woman. Pallidity is meant to suggest a weakness, yet somehow the pale flat limbs and body radiate strength instead. Maybe it is the sinew, or the veins that can be seen beneath that watery surface. It is impossible to believe that a network that advertises itself for inspection could be in any way faulty. She is broad, yet slender, as if her body has been jointed together like a machine. Her face seems as if it is hewn rather than finely cut, yet somehow it suits her. Its chalky surface and rouged lips slowly rotate to circumspeculate upon the world she reigns over.

This world is a world that she is both Queen and terror of. It is a parallel, you see, I am telling a fairytale. It was decided long ago that worlds should be compartmentalized, and as such, terrors cannot cross between them. Better the devil you know. This world, Edisreal, is alone. It must mimic its ruler. It is flat, and pale, reflective of the various suns and moons that orbit it and balanced in between a web of huge trees, huge ones. The citizens of this planet wait each month for the queen to change, for one night each month when she becomes different and they all must mimic her for fear of being attacked by her. She is so strong, and floats over the city covering it with her cape of darkness. The Queen ages. She becomes ghoulish. The legend goes that any person unchanged on that night must be consumed by her, in order that she can change back to her usual state, though there are those who say they see the ghoul on the other side even when she is her pallid self.

So the town celebrates this monthly purge. A carnival, that they almost enjoy, despite the thieving and murdering that goes on the rest of the time. A more honest time, because when they are spirits they are one, and there is no spirit for or against his other spirit. Under her cloak they form one conglomerate mass, protected in anonymity. But she cannot survive so forever, and if she senses feeling under her, in her world she must consume the perpetrator in order to sustain the delicate balance. Noone can feel in that time threshold. They are reduced to pulsating masses. And she is forgiven. And each month, it happens again.

Fretwork.

I feel like I might cry tonight, and for no other reason than I have had what can only be termed as a discussion with my Father. It began quite easily- Mum and Dad asked my sister to play something on her guitar for my Grandma. She did, very well. She learns the guitar. Then I started to fool about on it- I don't know chords or anything, I was just strumming a bit. My Dad, whenever he sees me do this, attempts to teach me chords or songs. I know that my reaction to this should be that it's lovely, how wonderful, he wants to involve me in something he likes. But instead I feel as if he's inflicting his enjoyments upon me. I don't know if I want to learn the guitar or not, but he was on about buying one for me. Our house is crowded with four guitars, and I don't need another one. I always had to ask for dancing kit, and it irks me that he would so readily throw money on this and not at another hobby.

I think that the main reason I don't want to learn the guitar is because I resent the amount of praise my brother and sister get for it; they are always asked to play something for visitors. I used to dance, and I like to act and read but I am never, nor have I ever been, encouraged to recite a verse or poem, or to show off what I'd learnt. They never asked if they could help me learn my lines for various plays. I feel like they find it boring. I feel that my family are almost ignoring my interests, when they aren't. They come to see my plays, and they always say how proud they are of me, and they don't exclude me from social gatherings. They're coming to see Macbeth with me. I said that I felt that they were slightly embarrassed of my dancing and acting, and Dad said no, they were proud, but it was difficult for them to get into it because he is already interested in the guitar, as are my other siblings. This deteriorated into a debate on why I feel I have to be different. I don't feel I have to be different. It's just that I'm more interested in acting than music; I don't feel that the effort I'd put in would equal the pleasure I'd get out. Then my Dad moved on to discussing why I want two weeks work experience in a big publishers in London as opposed to six weeks work experience here. I know that it would be cheaper, but I want to aim high as opposed to working on a little paper. I'd rather work for an international brand, and form contacts and gauge what I might want to do after leaving university than while away the summer at a smaller outlet. I don't think it's out of my league to try for this.

At the end of this debate my Dad said, again, that it was hard for him to get across how much he loved me without coming across as stifling. I said he didn't come across as stifling, and added that I loved him too. Which I do, but I said it in such a flat monotone that I might as well have muttered "oh well". I just wasn't into happy resolutions and peachy resolvings. I come out of exchanges of this nature with my Dad feeling that he has won, even if he hasn't, because I am always on the brink of tears, and the way I control that is to be monotone and immovable. I don't want a hug. I want independence and respect. I can't get that if I don't communicate effectively, or if I break down in tears. Those are pathetic things to do.

Dad also pointed out that I am very defensive. I said that this was because I felt that any suggestion he made that was not met with approval on my behalf would be pushed until it was, such as the small job versus big job situation. It isn't just that either, he never used to believe that I was working hard at school unless I was achieving top marks. It doesn't really matter what we do so long as it compares with everyone else. My ten year old sister came home from her first gym session today and said that she'd beaten her personal best, to which my father said well done and then enquired how that ranked with everyone else. She didn't know. It's always a competition with everyone else, and he wonders why I'm so defensive. So I have to put up a big defence in order not to be pushed into something somebody else wants in the first place. I always have to defend my decision if it isn't one that he would have come to. Just saying that I don't want to work on this small paper isn't good enough for him, no reason is, it has to be defended and explained.

I come across as such a whiny brat. Well, I am. I want for nothing, and I've got both my parents who are both wonderful, generous, caring and attend my plays and festivals even if it's not their first choice of hobby. What more can I ask for? It isn't as if they want me to give up acting to play the guitar. I'd hate it if they simply acquiesced to my every request. Some people have a terrible time growing up, and I am not one of them and this rambling post should be deleted and consigned to the back passages of my mind.