bye-bye Snow

Dear Reader,

I'm in the wintery-festive mood lately for obvious reasons. And since I've had no place to go, I'll sing (even with my sore throat) "Let it Snow, let it snow, let it snnnnooooowwwww"... ( these pictures are a few days old now but click the images to properly see all the snow falling action)

If, like me, you're reading this from London, or anywhere in the UK: I hope you enjoyed the snow and remember to drive carefully. If not then I hope you have a nice, warm and cozy winter holiday (unless you're in the southern hemisphere in which case, enjoy your summer and still drive carefully anyway).

Nida

thoughts On writing

Dear Reader,

As this year comes to an end, so does the poll I set up for the title of The Big One (a novel I'm currently writing).  So if you haven't yet voted, make sure you do before 01-01-11. Because every vote counts. --->;

Okay, election speech over, now on to more a important topics i.e. my self-confidence.

So I've noticed that lately I haven't been so hesitant to proclaim myself a writer or admit that I'm writing a novel or two. This is kind of a new thing for me, despite the impression that one might get from my blog. I'm generally quite a shy person and usually avoid questions related to my writing. I don't know exactly when this change began but I know it definitely has something to do with this blog. It might also have something to do with the fact that in these last few weeks I've been taking to uni, my main notebook for "The Big One" (see below for pictures) and the recyclable-folder (I'm as "green" as my bedroom walls) containing the printed version of all that I've typed up so far for this particular novel.

THE notebook

a Random page - so you can see the state of my thoughts

Now another thing you, dear reader, should know about me is that I usually don't put up much of a fight. Confession: Fights - I absolutely hate them, avoid them at all cost and don't even like the concept of them (except maybe in novels like The Lord of the Rings and kickass video games like Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood  or Prince of Persia) So when some of my uni-friends, Collective Codename: The Sisterhood, lovingly began pestering me to let them read some of my work ... well you can imagine how that turned out. But the comments that I got afterwards made me think that maybe, just maybe my friends aren't just saying all that so as not to hurt my feelings, maybe this stuff that I write isn't so bad, that maybe I should consider getting it published.

However, there is one thing I know for sure: I don't want "The Big One" to be the first thing I ever publish. The reasonings behind this decision are complex and even I don't fully understand it, but I'll try to explain it anyway:

"The Big One" is a work in progress and something that would change and grow and get better as I get older and, hopefully, wiser. It's an outlet for me into which I channel all that I observe in my surroundings, all that I feel and desire on the inside, all the irrelevant thoughts bumping around inside my skull and all that can be found in my imagination. And what I do is I "curl and crush it all into to a tight knit ball inside myself" and then "splatter it all across the empty pages that lie in my lap". So you see, other than being ginormously personal to me, it would be fair to neither my characters nor myself if "The Big One" is published before the story or I'm is fully actualised.

If you can properly understand all that, then I congratulate you on gaining more insight into my personality than I have.

Now I think that this is more than enough confessions and contemplations for me today.
Until next time,


Nida
 

the Winter reading List

Dear Reader,

Another season, another reading list, another post. Being caught up in university assignments and my research project and a million other things, did not leave me with enough time to complete my reading list from last season. Thus, my list this time round has a lot of books that you're probably already familiar with (that is if you've been following this blog for a few months now).  But there are definitely some new books there to wet your appetite (Aside: this phrase only applies to you dear reader, if you like to devour books the way I do - not literally though). 

Anyway, without further ado, may I present to you The List: 

1. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight translated by J. R. R. Tolkien
2. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
3. Kill Grief by Caroline Rance
4. Aspirin: The Remarkable story of the Wonder Drug by Diarmuid Jeffreys
5. The Winter Ghost by Kate Mosse
6. The Body Finder by Kimberly Derting
7. The Replacement by Brenna Yavanoff
8. The Passage by Justin Cronin
9. Bitterblue by Kristen Cashore
10. Evercrossed by Elizabeth Chandler
11. The Lady Most Likely by Julia Quinn

This ones called "A View From my Bed":

I have nothing further to say really, especially with all these deadlines creeping up behind my shoulder. So for now, I bid you adieu!

Nida

P.S. - I know, I know I'm just feeling a bit dramatic today. 

"episode V: The Cold Strikes Back" or "episode III: Revenge of the Frost"

Dear Reader,

It's bellow freezing here.

And it's snowing.

I hate it.

I normally don't mind watching the snow fall; as long as I'm inside with a hot mug of tea clasped in my hands. Other than that, I want absolutely nothing to do with snow, ever again. (Well, I think I can make an exception for the great joy of pelting my brothers with it.)

Anyway, I should be at university right now, helping my supervisor in the lab, doing my own research. But instead, I am once again wrapped up thoroughly in a blanket, with a horridly sniffly nose. And who is to blame for this whole escapade... well I'll let you figure that out for yourself.

It was a struggle to get up this morning, to leave my warm and comfortable bed for the icy wetness of the bathroom. But I finally managed to be up and out by 6am, just in time to pray the morning prayer (fajr). Then I took a lovely steamy shower, put on seven layers of clothing and 3 pairs of socks and went down for breakfast. As per my daily routine, after breakfast I walked to my local train station (a 20 mins walk by the way) to catch the 08:36 train.

The train station hangs precariously from a bridge, with train tracks scattered beneath and an equally precarious kebab shop on the opposite side of the road. The station extends three tentacles that become the outdoor platforms as they hit the ground and are splayed parallel between the train tracks. So there I am on the platform towards London, freezing my toes off. It's 9:17am. I keep looking down to check that I'm not actually standing bare foot on ice. The screen that's supposed to tell me when the next train will arrive has a jumble of nonsense words on it.      

When a train finally does arrive, it's packed to the brim, so much so, that people trying to get off the train can't find a way out. And of course all the hundred or so other freezing black/brown-clad commuters that where also imitating icicles on the platform, suddenly find motion and run to congest any door of the train they can find, therefore leaving little me without any hope of getting on this train.

Frustrated, I take the smart-phone-xperia-thing out my coat pocket but I can't get the stupid thing to unlock, because, of course, it's not going to work while I still have gloves on. So I take the frozen-twigs that where once fingers on my right hand, out of my glove and shakily find the app. with live travel information. At exactly that point, my ice-addled brain reminds me that there is a tube strike today. Brilliant brain, why couldn't you have told me that while I was still inside the house! ( Aside: sarcasm doesn't work well when it's only in your own head.)

At this point I gave up. I called my supervisor and let him know that there was no chance on this earth of me making into uni before 3 pm. To which he replied: "Oh, don't worry about it. I already e-mailed you this morning that you don't have to come in today if it's too much of a hassle." I thanked him with a politeness that I did not feel and then began trudging my way back out of the station.

20 minutes later, I arrived back home, shaking so badly that I could not get my keys in to the lock and so had to ring the bell instead. My marvellous mother, who had opened the door, immediately wrapped me in blankets and deposited my besides the cooker. After about an hour or so of defrosting in the kitchen, paying particular attention to my peripheral extremities, I tentatively came upstairs, opened my beloved laptop and began this scathing post on the weather.

In the end, I can blame neither the weather, the trains, the strike or my supervisor. It falls to entirely and wholly upon myself and my brain. *Sigh, cough, cough*

A word of warning dear Reader: before leaving your house this winter, make sure you check the weather and live travel information.                  

Nida 

P.S. - as pertains to the title of this post, well all I can say is that I only recently became a huge fan of the Star Wars Series. :-D    

Some Reviewing Part 2: Tam Lin

Dear Reader,

Lately I've been reading a lot of long poems and a lot about narrative poetry, ballads in particular. You see, for some years now, I've wanted to write my own epic/ballad; a sort of challenge to myself, though it had been a vague idea of something that I would do, some time in the future. But now I've finally got the story that I want tell through verse. I've got the characters, the setting, the plot and we can't forget the "bad guys". But, like any good story, before I actually start writing the epic/ballad, I need to do a bit of research. In this case, about form and structure of specific narrative poems.

And that, my dear reader, is how I stumbled across the 16th Century Scottish-borderland ballad, "Tam Lin". But as it turns out, a popular fiction writer, Pamela Dean, has written a modern re-telling of this old ballad. So of course I jumped at the chance of reading it.

It started off all well and good and interesting. However, for the first three quarters of the book, it read less like a modern re-telling of an old folklore ballad and more like the author's account of university life. And though I don't mind reading the later and greatly enjoyed her poetic language and discussion of great literary writers and their works (espeacially her take on Hamlet); more often than not, I found myself wondering when the magic and faeries would come in. At one point I became quite hopeless in my search for a spark between the two main characters, Tam Lin/Thomas Lane and Janet, i.e. the beginning of the story from the folk tale. And it is precisely because of this delay that some of her rambling descriptive pieces, though linguistically beautiful, became a bit of a nuisance to read. 

Nevertheless, it wasn't until after page 266 (more than half way through) that I began to spot some overt hints to the actual story of the ballad. (But when it truly began, the whole thing was resolved in less than five pages - make of that what you will.) So "all's well that ends well", right?

One thing's for sure, this book has definately got me interested in literature-that's-more--intellectually-challenging again, which is a bit of a move from quick-enjoyable-fictional-reads-that-don't-require-much-brain-power that I had been reading lately. But on the hole, though the characters didn't make a lasting impression on my heart, I still found it to be an intellectual pleasure to read, and would probably find myself revisiting it sometime in the near future.

As for my own epic/ballad, I'll keep you posted on any developments.

Nida

P.S. - sorry no video today. Maybe next time, if any thing significant pops up. 

Some Reviewing Part 1: Cranioklepty

Dear Reader,

At a moment of procrastination, curiosity overtook me and I began counting the number of books in my room rather than revising for an in-course assessment/test-thing coming up this Thursday. As it turns out, as yet I have 180 books in my 8ft.x8.2ft bedroom: 153 of which happen to be fiction ;-). (I haven't added to this number my vast collection of New Scientist and Poetry.com magazines) I know that by regular library standards these happen to a quiet a small numbers, but I'm not sure how this stands in comparison to regular 'bedroom' standards. Oh well, I guess it doesn't matter one way or another.

  

So, on to the main topic for today: Cranioklepty: Grave Robbing and the Search for Genius by Colin Dickey. First things first, despite the fact that this book is about stolen skulls, I greatly enjoyed reading it and absorbing all this morbid information about musical and medical geniuses, told in such a humorous and entertaining prose. Despite the vast cast of persons whose tales are related intimately, Colin Dickey's voice and unique manner of writing still shines through. I now know more more about Joseph Hayden, Joseph Carl Rosenbaum, Sir Thomas Browne, Beethoven, Rokitensky, Mozart and Louis Pierre Gratiolet than I would have cared to know just a few months ago. But more than anything, this book is about the evolution of the science and study of the concious in the universally revolutionary 19th century; how we perceive the norms of society, and how this changes over time related through four or five well researched anecdotes. 

But there are some things in this book that were far more relevant to me personally. For example, here is a  quote from the book that I particularly like, from a passage about Sir Thomas Browne:

"...There had been no contradiction between a man of science and a man of religion. They provided different means to the same goal: understanding the works of God."

Those two sentences summarise the majority of my beliefs quite eloquently. But you, my dear reader, are welcome to disagree with me, I'm not here to force my opinions/beliefs on anyone.     

Anyway, that is all I have to say about this book for now. Until next time with another Book, another Blog, another Review.

Nida

P.S. - Recently I've gone back to listening a lot to one of my old favourite bands Jimmy Eat World. So I thought I might share the video of one of my favourite songs by them, Always Be. Enjoy. Or not (it might not be your time of thing at all).  

my Grudge against Time

Dear Reader,

(Note: I was suppose to post this one on the 11th of November but my internet has been down for about five days now so I've only just been able to complete this post.)  

Back in 2006 - which is quite some time ago now - my friend, Codename: The Artist, recommended a book to me that at the time sounded incredibly interesting. So I noted down the title and author, and then thoroughly forgot about it. The book would go on to become a International best-seller and would be turned into a financially successfully film in 2009. This book of course was The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. 

Yet I still didn't read it. Even though I had a copy of the book all this time. The book just sat there in the corner of my room, gathering dust, watching as I read every other book in the unread pile, re-reading books I'd read a dozen times already. I don't have any explanation as to why I didn't read it. As you can probably image, this is quite a mystery to me since I very rarely leave a book I own unread. 

But yesterday, 8th November, I finally watched the film version of the The Time Traveler's Wife with my brothers and I have to admit, if it wasn't for the nudity, I would have really liked the movie and even recommended it to people. And I do believe that I'm actually, finally, going to read the book now (after I finish reading Maps of Lost Lovers by Nadeem Aslam). This is the first time I'm going to read the book because-of/after-watching the film version, rather than the other way round (which is normally the case). 

So anyway, the film got me thinking of "Time" itself and how we perceive it. For example, in the last three paragraphs (discounting the use in the title of the book) I used the word "time" six times. Hahaha, that last "times" was unintentional but proves my point exactly. The English language has so many uses of the word "time" with such varying meanings and context. It all get quite confusing some times. 

But going back to what I've been wanting to say...

Seconds, hours, years, centuries are just our way of measuring something quite insubstantial, like pain. And to think that so much of our lives are centred around this intangible concept: we plan out the hours of our day, our weeks, our years. So many of our decisions are based on how much time we have; from the most mundane to the most significant. As a consequence, we humans living in the 21st century, spend so much of our "time" watching time, and watching it fly past us. 

Courtesy of djibnet.com 

Being both a city dweller and a Muslim (with our five daily prayers and all), I keenly feel Time as a constant presence racing beside me, ahead of me. There is so much I want to do, have to do, but there are just not enough hours in the day and definitely not enough days in a year. And because I have such precious little time, I tend to priorities almost everything in my life, making mental and physical lists (as can be seem by the state of my bedroom notice board below). 

Unfortunately, the things that find themselves on the bottom of my lists usually end up left undone. These things tend to include: my poetry, my novel writing, long phone calls/notes/e-mails to friends I haven't seen/spoken/written to in ages. So I'd personally like to apologise to all those people in the last category, especially my pen-pal-friend on Shelfari Codename: So-Much-to-Read-So-Little-Time, who hasn't heard from me since August. I'm Sorry. 

Now that that's off my chest I feel a lot better.

So I believe that Time - like Truth - is subjective. Changing it's flow depends entirely on ones perception of it. That quite nicely explains why time seems to move faster when you're busy and much slower when you're not. But, when put that way, in the end it means that my lack of time (and therefore my "grudge" against it) is completely, 100%, my own fault. Can't say I blame myself though. Hardly five minutes go by without me doing something. I hate the feeling of doing nothing, it feels like wasting time. (I'm actually quite a fidgety and impatient person in the solid-non-internet world.)

So that about sums up what I want to say. I hope this post has left with you, my dear reader, with something to thing about. If not, then at the very least, I hope I haven't bored/confused you. I promise the next post will be coming to your monitors soon. Until then...

Nida

Poetry Post

Dear Reader,

It's the first week of November and because I said that I will be posting regularly now (same as before - once a week) I decided it was high time for another blog post. Problem is, I don't really have anything new to say. I've  been trudging through the same, albeit exteremly interesting, book for the past 2 weeks: Cranioklepty: Grave Robbing and the Search for Genius by Colin Dickey. So I'm not even able to write a review yet.  

In the end (which was about exactly 7 minutes ago!) I decided to write about one of the things I'm quite passionate about. Poetry. If you, my dear reader, have not even the tinyest bit of interest in poetry, then I give you premission to not read this post. Don't worry, I won't hate you for it (this is being written with a benevolent smile on my face, just in case you don't believe me).  

As far as hobbies go, I think poetry is a good one to have. Even the Prophet Muhammad (SAW) was a fan. In Women around The Messenger, by Muhammed Ali Qutb, it states that the Prophet (SAW) "did not compose poetry, but as an Arab, naturally loved refined and truthful poetry, the sort that avoided exaggeration and triviality in words and meanings ... [the Prophet (SAW)] appreciated the positive impact that poetry can have on the mind." In fact, one of his (SAW) favourite poets was a women called Al-Khansa, whose best work was a beautiful eulogy that she wrote on the death of her brother, Sakhr. Which reminds me, in an earlier post I mentioned my favourite stanza from Percy Shelley's poem To a Skylark. Again, despite the differences in time and culture, his words seem to speak true, where our "sweetest" poems are those that are derived from the "saddest" thoughts and experiences.

But as far as favourite writers go, there is always Thomas Hardy; better known for novels like Tess of the d'Urbervilles, The Mayor of Casterbridge and The Return of the Natives, (all of which I have read, by the way) set in a semi-fictional place called Wessex. But I still like his poetry the best. It's so often depressing but mostly meaningful and exquisite. My favourite is the poem Convergence of the Twain but it's a fairly long poem. The Darkling Thrush is my second favourite and is a much shorter poem:

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware

This poem was written at the turn of the 20th Century: going from 1899 CE to 1900 CE was a big thing at the time! But what I like most about this poem, aside from the vivid and contrasting imagery, is that despite the death of an era, a century, there is still Hope, even for the "old birds".




For a reason I cannot possibly fathom, I'm not much of a fan of modern poetry, but much rather prefer Victorian, 17th and 18th Century poetry. Some of my favourite poets include William Blake (London being my favourite from Songs of Experience), Robert Browning (My Last Duchess and Love Among the Ruins), Sir Walter Scott (Lady of The Lake and some parts of Marmion), Christina Rossetti (Remember),  Mary Ann Evans/George Eliot (In a London Drawingroom), William Wordsworth (Composed upon Westminster Bridge, 1802 and Daffodils)  and John Keats (To Autumn). You know, I've also noticed that I have a tendency to like poems related to the contrasts, especially between the countrysides abundant beauty and cramp city life, but also poems about Nature in general.


One of the few modern poets that I do like, however, is Imtiaz Dharker. I came across her work while doing my GCSE's. And though I've read quite a bit of her poetry now, I still think that the following poem is the best one she's written:


Blessing

The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.

Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.

Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation : every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,

and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.


I've often contemplated over the idea that we privileged humans, more often than not, forget to appreciate the simple but important things/blessings in our lives. There is far too much to discuss on the topic of this modern fanaticism for materialism, too much for this one post. But I think Imtiaz Dharker's poems brilliantly brings a bit of perspective into my everyday equation. That's probably why I find myself repeatedly going back to it.


Nevertheless, fortunately this modern time is not completely lacking in talent. Take Tim McIlrath for example, from the band Rise Against. Though he's not a technically a poet, his lyrics are akin to poetry. Here are some of my favourite lines:

from The Good Left Undone:

In fields where nothing grew but weeds,
I found a flower at my feet,
Bending there in my direction,
I wrapped a hand around its stem,
I pulled until the roots gave in,
Finding there what I'd been missing...

Inside my hands these petals browned,
Dried up, fallen to the ground
But it was already too late now.
I pushed my fingers through the earth,
Returned this flower to the dirt,
So it could live. I walked away now.

from The Dirt Whispered:

She got down on hands and knees,
One ear against the ground,
Holding her breath to hear something,
But the dirt made not a sound tonight.

Echoes of songs still lurk on distant foreign shores,
Where we danced just to please the people that only ask for more,
So it goes
But still we give ourselves to this
We can't spend our lives waiting to live...

The postcard says wish you were here
But I'd rather I was there, 
Holding on to the simple things before they disappear,
That's what I meant
But that was then, and this is now
I'll make it up to you somehow...


You have to agree, there is something simple but explicitly elegiac and graceful about these lyrics.

Since I've been writing about poetry, this post would not be complete without mentioning Shakespeare and John Milton. Rather than go into lengthy odes about these two literature celebrities, which would probably bring back your nightmares from high school English classes, I'm just going to present you with some small sampling of my favourite piece of Shakespeare's work.


Sonnet 130 by Shakespeare


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare   
   As any she belied with false compare. 

I'll leave it to you, my intelligent reader, to make what you want of these two poems. Aside: from of all the Sonnets that I've ever read in my life, these two are my favourite.

Anyway, because I've had a few poems published in anthologies here and there, I consider myself a somewhat amateur poet. So here is a treat for you, dear reader: some of my own poetry that has been deemed worthy of publishing:

Precious Rain 
©2007

Thick pearl grey fluff
hovering above us

outlined by white

where the gold sun dare to shine.

The thousand tears

fall from the saphire sky.

Bitter but sweet

the wind blows by.

Confining others

for me it's no matter.

Pitter-patter

and pitter-patter

the droplets kiss:

the emerald leaves

the gemmed flowers

the paved floors

for hours and hours.

It feels so soft 

upon my skin

the water beads

falling within.

It's all gone

only some remain

nestled on petals

like diamons on a chain.

Age in Laughter 
©2008


Spring are the tears of the newly born

pattering down by passing clouds of morn

with strength to sprout through iced soil

that which remains of Winter’s toil

leaving behind the sound of innocence torn,

Spring are the tears of the newly born

Summer is the speed of sweat trickling

casting a shadow little more than trifling

down the backs of a multitude of flowers

as the days lengthen, hours by hours

rich with youth in melodious giggling,

Summer is the speed of sweat trickling

Autumns are a drop of ripened browns

dew in evenings around cities and towns

there the orange and blazing red of trees

golden honey stolen from laboured bees

where wary chuckles hide knowing frowns,

Autumns are a drop of ripened browns

Winter is a frigid mask of the pool

where night is when we all play fool,

dormant in death nature seems to lie

time passes in the whisper of a sigh

a snigger filled with writhing pain

until Winter gives way to Spring again...


Aside: Age in Laughter was one of my more obscure poems, written in response to a poem written by my friend Codename: Pixie, called Disappearance of Innocence. 

I, the Wind

--> -->
©2006

I am like the cool wind
on a hot summers day

I lift your spirit 

I lighten your heart

I blow off some of your burden

while I seductively stroke 

my finger through your hair

and then

I am gone.

And you try so hard

to grip me in your grasp

only to find you can't

So you try so hard

to dwell upon those memories 

linger upon those feelings

of cool

while you wait for my return.

Yet you seem to ignore

the glass of iced water

right in front of you

which can cool you much better than I?

Like Hamlet 
©2010


Like the sun clinging to the clouded sky

Before it plunges into the earth,

I dither on a horizon

Waiting for my ghost,

Like the tumultuous sea of North,

I’m calm and then I soar

And hidden in my madness

A pain I had not before,

Like the wind wafting over a rose

I kiss my lover’s breath,

Then push it further from me

And see it through to death.


Aside: as you can probably tell, Like Hamlet is one of my more recent poems. I wrote it when I was re-reading Hamlet by Shakespeare. I normally don't re-read plays and much prefer to watch them. But I had just finished reading Ophelia by Lisa Klien, where Klien re-writes the play from Ophelia's perspective (one of the only two female characters in the play). That's why I ended up re-visiting a lot of Shakerspeare's work last year.

Make sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think of my poems, and if by some miracle you like one of them, let me know which one.


Nida

Meeting Maggie

Dear Reader,

I just realised that I haven't once blogged in the month of October, despite the fact that so many important things have happened. Okay, okay, not that many "important" things have happened, since I've spent the past two-and-a-half weeks burrito-wrapped in a blanket, with a fire inside my skull and my sinuses filled with a sticky liquid. Not the most creativity-encouraging state to be in. But other than all of that, there is one thing I would like to mention.

On the 2nd of October, despite feeling slightly under the weather (the beginnings of what would turn out to be a week-long episode of fevers and empty-tissue-boxes) I trudged out to  Kensington High Street, London (only a 1/2hour away from my house) with my childhood friend, Codename: Princess - she really is my "child"-hood friend, having known her since she was a baby and by being five years my junior. So, as it was a Saturday, we were immensely lazy and got there around 11:30am. We shopped around for my Aunt's birthday present and then around 1:00pm entered Pizza Hut for lunch. We had this incredibly tasty "Hot Cookie Dough" and Vanilla icecream:

After that we headed over to Waterstones where Maggie Stiefvater would be signing books. The queue wasn't that terribly long when we got there (it still spilled over on to the street though) but lucky for us it wasn't raining that badly either. There was this really nice lady in front of us, who was wearing a red hijab. She gave Maggie some gifts which included a book and a very pretty packet of dates (the fruit) from Saudi Arabia. At the time I really wished I had brought a copy of Love in a Headscarf for Maggie Stiefvater. I think she would have really enjoyed it. But I'll definately remember it next time.

That's me on the left and Maggie Steifvater on the right (for those of my reader who don't know who's whom). 

The addition in this photo is Princess - also an avid Maggie Stiefvater fan 

I took all of my Maggie Steifvater books with me (Lament, Ballad, Shiver and Linger) to be signed but I bought a another signed copy of Linger for my best friend Codename: Pixie, because unfortunately she wasn't able to come with us, even though she wanted to. We chatted for a little while and I told Maggie that Ballad was my favourite - partly because I love the main character, James and mostly because there was a lot of wonderfully twisted Fearie action (including someone being burnt alive, Muh hu ha ha haaaa) - and Maggie was nice enough to doodle the Thornking (the main "bad guy") onto the book, as seen below:

I don't know about you, my dear reader, but I think that's pretty cool.

Anyway, since I've been spending a lot of time in bed, not only have a got quite a bit of Uni-work done but I've also done quite a lot of reading (check out my now updated 'Reading upDates' in the side bar --->) and watched quite a few new and old movies (I've added my opinion of the movies in brackets):

• Sherlock Holmes (10/10)
• Hitch (6/10)
• Iron Man 2 (5/10 - a bit of a disappointment since the first Iron Man was 9/10) 
• The Prestige (8/10)
• The Princess and the Frog (9/10)
• How to Train Your Dragon (7/10 - the main dragon, Toothless, is incredibly cute)
• The Lion King (10/10 - I love Disney!!!) 
• Creation (8/10 - It was better than I thought it would be. Paul Bettany's performance was amazing though.) 

On a side note, I want to thank Kristen Cashore for posting this link on her blog. It had me laughing (and coughing) when I was feeling utterly miserable due to this heinous cold, not to mention the swollen glands. All Harry Potter fans MUST check this out. 

And I shall have to leave you with that for now, since I intend to go into university tomorrow and I have to get a lot of doctor-prescribed-bed-rest. So it's off-to-bed-early for me. Good night and sweet dreams.

Nida