katy of the royal race of katys

I am going to France, land (surprisingly enough) of the French, for a week. I am mainly telling you this because trust is an important part of every relationship, and I feel like it's important that you are able to differentiate between the extended periods when I do not update my journal because I am in foreign climes and the (even more) extended periods when I do not update my journal because I never update my journal. It's a fine line, but an important one!

Unfortunately, the weather in Paris at the moment is apparently basically the same as the weather over here (i.e. it is pissing it down, only with a silly accent). We can only hope that, if the floodwaters become dangerously substantial, I will be able to use the beret of a passing local as a makeshift dinghy and his baguette as a handy freshly-baked oar.

Clearly, if the French have stopped conforming to their stereotypes since the last time I was over there, then I'm fucked.



(It's a shame I did German and not French at school, really, or I might have some sort of communication option left other than 'REALLY LOUD ENGLISH')

Some people will do anything for an insurance claim...

Yesterday, I was in the same room (well, studio) as Stephen Fry and Alan Davies and Jeremy Clarkson, which was a bit exciting.

You may be interested to know (although, let's face, odds are you won't - in the history of the world, has anyone ever been interested in a sentence that started with "You may be interested to know"?*) that I have started doing preliminary research into whether I can now get away with starting anecdotes with, "As my close personal friend Stephen Fry once said...".

Obviously, I'll keep you updated.

* (You may be staggeringly uninterested to know that they have not).

Lo! Fireworks!


It's Bonfire Night in a couple of days!

ME: But the bit I still have issues with is why we mark the anniversary of some bloke blowing up Parliament with joyous fun and merriment!
MUM: While this is naturally a valid point, I think we're meant to focus on the fact that he didn't actually succeed.
ME: So, essentially, the message of this whole thing is, ''Embrace failure, children! It's an age-old British tradition!''?
MUM: Well. Yes. Essentially.
ME: And now we are all filled with festivity because there was a man once and he didn't blow anything up at all?
MUM: Yes. I think you've grasped it now.
ME: But that's ridiculous! Millions of people don't blow up Parliament every single day! Just by sitting here talking to you, I am actively not blowing up Parliament! Where are my fireworks? Where are my burning effigies? Where is my justice?
MUM: Bob, where do you think we'd find some cheap effigies of Katy at eight o'clock on a Friday night?
DAD: Couldn't we just economise and pop her onto the bonfire instead?
ME: ...My justice is not quite so exciting or fulfilling as I had initially hoped.

I AM GOING ON HOLIDAY! For a week! To the Isle of Wight! No one should have to spend a week on the Isle of Wight!*


* I think that the Isle of Wight Tourist Board should take this line in their next set of island promotions, I really do.


While I'm gone, you will be able to contact me in the following ways:
1. Telepathy (make sure to leave your name and number, though, or you'll be redirected to my Spam Brain)
2. Smoke signals
3. Carrier pigeons
4. Symbolic crop circles ("This one is ever so slightly oval! SOMETHING IS AMISS!")

Or you could bring all four together, and send me a telepathic ten-a-day pigeon wearing a stylish jacket made of wheat (in which case I would know exactly what you meant, really). THE CHOICE IS YOURS.

MATHS: A
GEOGRAPHY: A
LATIN: A
GERMAN: A
GENERAL STUDIES: A

GERMAN A-LEVEL: A


And hey, hey, remember the General Studies paper where I told Pete Doherty that he should Get His Act Together, And Don't You Dare Inject Yourself While I Am Improving You, Young Man? Well, apparently the examiner was either Pete's mum or Kate Moss, because... well. Somehow I managed to get full marks.



I say it was a fix.

(Ha! Fix! Drug addicts! Get it? Get it?)


For next year's exam, I'm thinking of branching out and handing out advice to the rest of the Libertines, and maybe Babyshambles if I am feeling particularly adventurous. Just think! By the time I'm done with university, I could have single-handedly dramatically reduced drug abuse across the entire British pop spectrum!

Blimey. I am practically Mother Theresa! Except more guitar-based.

Last night I had a nightmare where I messed up a whole question in my AS General Studies exam by rambling about how Pete Doherty is ruining his career and his life and his nose, and why won't he think of the puppies!!!!!.

And then I woke up and realised, actually, no, that really happened!


In other words: JASJIOSGJIASJOAG!. OIHIOGH!!!!!. AIOFHIASFAS FUCKASIOGH A!


In other, more English, words: Exam results tomorrow. The words "Oh", "arseing" and "Hell" spring cheerfully into my mind, like bouncy little minions of Satan. The kind of minions who are fun to shoot through the head. And then throw into the Thames, having been presented with stylish new concrete booties.



In some more words: I am really scared!

It rained today! Real water, and everything! I wept with joy!

Well. Almost. What happened was, I was at Sainsburys Homebase with my mother, who claimed that she needed me to go so that I could help her carry home some new human-devouring plants she thought might brighten up the living room a bit. To be honest, though, I have a strong suspicion that she was acting on my father's orders in a last-ditch attempt to turn me into the sort of person who gets excited by pneumatic drills. Or, if you like, a last-ditch attempt to turn me into my father.

I don't remember Freud mentioning anything about desiring your daughter to covet your power tools. BUT HE SHOULD HAVE DONE. And if he had, it probably would have been called the Electrica Complex.¹


Anyway, we were in Homebase, and the Weather Wizard pressed some buttons and suddenly it was raining and we were trapped in the plant bit of the store and -- why there aren't many horror movies with this plot, I will never know -- and then I started sneezing chronically and my mother neglected me to lavish attention on some leafery, lest it felt unloved. Never have I been more aware of my own mortality! Or of my own conspicuous lack of buds!


ME: I have pneumonia! I shall clearly die!
MUM: Either that, or you're afflicted by the Family Curse. You should be glad! Some families have webbed feet!
ME: Yes. Family curse. Which some people call hayfever.
MUM: (snorts) Peasants.
ME: And yet you are forcing me, your cursed daughter, to stand in a building constructed entirely of plants! I would phone Childline if I didn't think they might be offended by my exploding parts! (sneezes)
MUM: Yes, yes, I'm a terrible mother, now would you sniff this large plant for me, dear? What do you think? Is the odour pleasing?
ME: On my grave, it will say, Katy Humber. Died On This Fine Day With A Small Herbacious Perrenial Up Her Nose. You don't hear that very often, do you? Tony Blair probably hushes up all the tragic deaths by Excessive Foliage, doesn't he, the git.
MUM: Well, look on the bright side! This way, your father and I won't need to tend to your grave! It will already be blooming beautifully on its own! At least we'll save on train fares this way!
ME: (sniffs) Everyone's going to think I'm a pansy² now, aren't they?



1. I am quite terribly fantastic and hilariously punny! Really! I am!
2. Okay, yes, there is a tiny, tiny chance that I need to stop playing on words. BUT THAT'S NO REASON TO MAKE PUN OF ME.

(Groan.)

_lashingoutloud, IT IS YOUR BIRTHDAY! (in case you had managed to forget, which is actually quite easy to do if there are not ample Hey, Remember? It's Your Birthday! Balloons nearby to remind you).

I was in the process of making you a Thing for the occasion, as is tradition (for 'tradition', read: 'well, I did it once, didn't I?'), but, um, it's not quite done yet. It will be, though. (And it rhymes, which definitely makes it doubly worth the wait!)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I love you more than many things!




Also, in additional news, I have my Mechanics: Mathematics Strikes Back... With Forces And Stuff! exam tomorrow, and I am hideously unprepared.

If the examiner expects me to know what direction things are going in, then he is a greedy globule of arse-mustard and I shall have no more to do with him. Different directions? In my day, everyone went in exactly the same direction! We were not spoilt for choice and the world was generally a better place!

Except, that was, when we all got as far as Scotland in The One True Direction (which was Up) and realised there wasn't actually anywhere else to go not involving getting slightly wetter than was decent. Which was, to be honest, a bit of a bugger.

A PLEASANT FAMILY CONVERSATION (or: The "How Many Paul McCartney's Wife Has No Leg Jokes It Is Possible To Make In Five Minutes?" Game)

MUM: And, alas, Sir Paul and Lady Not-Linda McCartney are no more.
ME: Oh, he'll come to regret it. It's going to cost an arm and a leg. (unbecoming snigger)
DAD: Luckily, they've already made an advance deposit on the Leg Front.
ME: Quantity: one, second-hand (well, second-foot, anyway), condition: slightly worn?
DAD: Exactly. Very sensible of them.
MUM: Well, there you go, then, they're halfway there! And arms aren't too hard to come across, are they?
ME: Of course not. For a start, those manifold ones that people were up in when Not-Linda first started mining for gold-- um, eternal happiness. They should do!
MUM: I really don't know what the papers are making a fuss about - it's all worked out quite nicely!
ME: ...you know, Satan is preparing a spare family room as we speak.
DAD: Yes, but only for the bad puns. The rest was entirely justified.
ME: Oh, definitely! No limb about it.
DAD: Speaking of Lucifer--
ME: Doubt! No doubt about it! That's definitely what I said!


I am going to a Eurovision party on this evening, which will probably be fun because the Eurovision Song Contest is essentially less of a song contest and more of a collection of inordinately sparkly bits of Parmesan singing songs that probably made sense in their original language, but end up getting translated into things like "O, I are overly loving of my goat!" and "Softly he dips my cherry-red lips in the essence of hope on which my love can float!" (and that second one, brilliantly, is actually a real lyric from 2002).

Obviously, England aren't going to win, because we've got an old bloke rapping about teenagers and it's a bit naff, but if I were going to enter, my song would go like this and people would be so shocked at my Honesty And Political Relevance that they would all vote for me and I would win by a land-slide and it would be awesome:

Eurovision, Eurovision, Eurovision, what a lark!
You won't vote for us 'cos we invaded Iraq!
Eurovision, Eurovision, Eurovision, not a chance!
Only one thing we agree on: we all hate France!

You know it makes sense.