Pretzels

Pretzels. Unfortunately, I'm not eating one at this moment, but I like 'em. I think the variety I'm used to is not actually the classic pretzel, or Brezel, which the name, and western version, of the pastry is derived from.
The kind that I snack on are small, smooth, glossy, and sprinkled with salt. I learnt in my research that these are known as 'hard pretzels', and are more common because they can be mass produced and stored, unlike its sister pastry, the classic soft pretzel. I read that they are quite a good alternative snack, but they should be spiced with things other than salt.
Anyway, today I am going to endeavour to tell you about the origins of this food, which you are probably thinking about right now.

I implied just before that Brezel is the original version of the pretzel, which would mean that they are German in origin. This is the official history of this much-loved food, because this is documented, unlike the 'legend' of the young Italian monk. This story is what I read on the pretzel packet, and what inspired me to write this entry, and so I am going to retell it to you (yes, you).

It was 610, Anno Domini. A monk was making the traditional bread for the religious celebration Lent. He had some left over dough and, so, inspired by the image of arms crossing a chest, he made shapes out of the dough to resemble this. He name his creation pretiola, Latin for 'little reward'. He gave these to children for completing his prayers.

Next time you're at a game, sitting on the couch, or, heck, in the elevator, why don't you broach this subject?

The German history, the cited one, is lengthy and complex, so feel free to Google it if you're curious. I much prefer the legend, not that I'm an expert on German pastry origins' I didn't really read it.

It was in 1978 that the first soft pretzel was machine produced. They produced 7 pretzels per second. This sounds hard to believe, I know, but in 1960, 18 years earlier, total pretzel sales had already reached $92 million.

I really don't know what else to write.
Oh, and no, I haven't been paid by pretzel companies to advertise their product. Good thinking, though.

Ugh. Ramble-wise.

So, here I am, 8.44pm on Monday night. We went back to school today, after two beautifully lazy weeks. I'm meant to be doing my research project. All the pages and documents are open- does that count for anything? I decided to do this entry. I don't why. I guess I kind of felt like writing. The main reason is my stereo is broken, so I'm listening to music on the computer. I have to do something whilst I am sitting here, or I'll get kicked off. It's painfully quiet, but it's better than nothing. Any louder, and I'll get kicked off as well (mum: 'Turn it down! Do you think I want to listen to that at half past eight at night?').
But I need this music, other wise I would be more insane than I already am right now.

So, first day of term three today. Yeah. I had the premiere lesson of my new second option today; drama. It was really enjoyable, actually. It was also a pleasant stroll down memory lane, as there are many people from my year nine class in there, and we sat all sat in practically the same places. One of my good friends is in my class, too, so I am indeed looking forward to this semester.

Uh, what else? I went for a run for cross country. I didn't train properly at all these past holidays. So, as you may have guessed, I'm crappier than I was before. Oh well, I'm not serious about X Country; I just enjoy running. Our coach, who is away at the Olympics (well, preparing his runners for it), wants me to go to this national thing or something at the end of this year. Now, don't worry, I'm not being humble, I'm just really bad. I thought he would have more sense than that. I'm obviously not going. Especially after what happened at the regional race.

So, yeah. I am in a pessimistic state of mind. Everything sucks. Even Oreos didn't make me feel any better. Only sad, because there is probably palm oil in them, and guilty, because I should have been munching on a carrot or something.
Approximately, 49 more days of school to go.

Continuing on this ramble, I thought making a list would make me feel better.
Yay, stuff.

I want...

CD-Wise
The Black Parade is Dead! Live DVD, My Chemical Romance
Hot Fuss, The Killers
Sawdust, The Killers
Because of the Times, Kings of Leon
Some Beatles stuff, probably Abbey Road to begin with.
Take this to your Grave, Fall Out Boy

School-Wise
To have got an Excellence on my Chemistry test (which I didn't, by the way, one big fat 'M', for me).
To stop being annoyed with everybody all the time. Seriously, inside my head I am so mean. I manage to be angry with the nearly everyone and everything (nearly) in the world, and the world itself. My mum would say, the negativity is only going back to you, it's not effecting anyone else. Well, what does she want me to? Yell at someone for talking to me, and have a fit because someone borrows my eraser without asking?
Oh, and not to be upset about getting a Merit. It's not that bad, is it?
Oh, oh, and I wouldn't mind being, like, super-intelligent, so I wouldn't have to bother with the whole Merit issue in the first place.

Home-wise
A spiral staircase.
A massive bed that is really high off the ground, with pillows that are always comfortable.
To stop being annoyed with my family, about everything, all the time.
Oh, and for my freaking stereo to work!

Well. This is when I conclude this horrible, tragic excuse for a blog entry. I hope you didn't read this.

Happy Anniversary of the first moon landing.

Science

Science
SCIENCE is an angel
that dwells in the hearts
and minds of men
who peer through optic instruments
at the whirling cosmos
or at our kaleidoscopic DNA
that shows us what we are
and what we'll be.
MEDICINE she brings us,
drugs and scans and surgery,
as well as computers
more powerful than Charles Babbidge
did dare dream.
We have weapons, spaceships,
crops that feed us all.
And the last of Her gifts
makes her disappear:
the truth that angels exist nowhere
but in the wondrous minds of men.

This is a poem that was featured in the fictional novel The truth about these strange times, written by English author, Adam Foulds. I adore this poem.

This character's admiration and love is folded and placed so neatly within these words; the fleeting rhyme scheme; the disjointed sentences that seem to flow. I always appreciate a piece of writing that connects the end and beginning, and there's something so tasteful about an ending that leads you right back to the start. I (metaphorically) take my hat off to Foulds. As a (kind-of) poem-writing-person myself, and someone rather interested in the art of writing, I treasure a piece of poetry that isn't trying to clever for cleverness's sake, and intentionally confusing. Okay, poems that just don't make sense have there own time and place, but as they are so painfully common in the world of adult poetry, one that only partially deludes you is a marvel.

I particularly like the lines, our kaleidoscopic DNA that shows us what we are

and what we'll be.

It manages to be literal, truthful, and descriptive.
If I could write poetry such as this, I would be quite content.

I have really been getting into science lately. I've been reading books such as The Origin of the Universe. I have also been reading a lot of New Scientist magazines, and watching a number of documentaries and reports on television. Okay, so in some people's opinions that won't constitute ''getting into Science'', but it isn't, like, defined, or anything.

I love the fact that science can explain nearly everything- that science is the universe. Things that we would struggle to do without now, electricity, cars, T.V. and computers, even your favourite energy drinks and junk food, are all the products of scientists.

It's also a relief to me that a lot of the questions I am asking have been answered, and that, in fact, all the answers lie in this study (in a logical context).

Though, I think it's important not to let yourself become completely immersed in logic. There are many questions that can never be answered, and it is a sort of genius in itself, being able to understand and accept that.

As Einstein said, "Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love."

Anatomy of Thought

What did you think of when you saw that title? Most probably you were just like, anatomy...what? but it is, in fact, a title of an art exhibition. And, for once, something I came up with actually has some meaning to it. First off, though, this exhibition of art is one that my mum and I have done together. I wrote poems and gave them to her, then she would paint a combination of what the poem was about and her emotional reaction to it.
Originally it was called Paint the Dream, derived from a Van Gough quote, but then we realised it didn't fit. It is called Anatomy of Thought because after about the third painting, my mum pointed out that each piece of poetry had mentioned a body part (hence anatomy). I wasn't doing it on purpose, I had written most of them beforehand; it was just a coincidence. As art tends to be, the poems and paintings were about our ideas, memories, emotions and opinions; our thoughts.
Thus, Anatomy of Thought came to be. I made the comment earlier about it actually having meaning because usually, to be truculently honest with you, I just write, sometimes to rhyme, sometimes because I like the sound of the words or the expression; but usually there isn't a meaning, to me at least, or explanation behind my work.
Though, I don't feel bad about it, because Freddy Mercury said about Bohemian Rhapsody, that whenever people asked him what it was about, that he said that he didn't know, and that he liked the mystery of not knowing.

Anyway, this is what I wrote describing the show, In this exhibition of self-expression and dilemma of thought, two mediums collide to represent not only the connection between verse and painting, but also the relationship between mother and daughter.

We put it up in the gallery last Monday. My mother's paintings were all the same, long, slim, size, and my poetry was printed on A1 pieces of white paper. All the fonts were different. They were hung side by side in the room, and I must say, it looked very professional. My mum says she has grown as an artists because of this, and I feel the our friendship has developed, too. It has given me a real insight into what it's like to be an artist, and the stressfulness that is meeting deadlines and hanging a show.

It has given me something to be really proud of. I see my words hanging on the wall- for everyone to see, and everyone to judge, and I'm not embarrassed anymore. Yes, I wrote it; yes, it says things that not everyone wants to hear; but it's mine.
I'm so unashamed that in the very near future I am going to be posting pictures of the paintings, accompanied by the poems, and a description, including, what they mean and why I wrote them (if there's is a meaning or a reason); what they meant to my mother, and why my mum painted what she did.

(The above picture is Van Gough's Starry Night, painted in 1889, and below is the painting, The Sower, painted in 1888.)

"And he dreamed yet another dream, and told it his brethren, and said, Behold, I have dreamed a dream more; and, behold,
the sun and the moon and the eleven stars made obeisance to me."

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

If you know me, or have just read a cetain few of my entries, you will see that I am one rather curious individual. Incessantly asking questions (which can get very annoying, anyone will tell you), I want to know it all, and I hate not understanding. There are lots of things I wonder about, and I'm sure many of you have too, that we could easily answer, but never get around to doing. I think that when you can find the answer to a question, than you should do so, and that is exactly what I am endeavoring to do in this blog. I hope you have as much fun learning as I did.

If someone asked you what's the longest word in the English word in the dictionary, there's a good chance you will say Antidisestablishmentarianism. But asked the definition of such a twenty-eight letter word, there's an equally good chance that you won't know it. Well, this word means the political position of being opposed to the idea of removing the Church of England from its position as the state church of England (the official church of the country). It was supported by none other than a goup dubbed the antidisestablishmentarians.
This is the longest non-coined and nontechnical word in the English language, any others that you come across will either have been coined (made up for the purpose of being the longest word) or technical (generally referring to science).
This word was formed through adding affixes to the base word (agglutinative construction), the base word which was establish.
This 12-syllable-long word literally means, according to Wikipedia, is the movement or ideology that opposes disestablishment.

I've heard this word countless times in song lyrics and in books, and mentioned by my very intelligent friends, and had always, embarrassed, just nodded along. Today I decided to find out what this term meant. Narcissism describes the trait of excessive self-love based on self-image or ego. (Thanks Wikpedia; even though I don't particularly enjoy copying and pasting, I don't feel at liberty re-writing definitions that I am just learning myself).
I found the story of derivation of this term quite interesting.
It comes, like a lot of words, from Greek; and in this instance, the Greek myth of Narcissus. Narcissus was a beautiful Grecian youth who rejected the hopeful advances of the nymp (female mythological entity), Echo. As punishment, his fate was to fall in love with his own reflection in a pool of water.
Unable to fulfill his love, Narcissus suffered with longing, and changed into the flower that bears his name, the narcissus (as seen above).

You might remember (if you are in my class, that is) Mr. V, mentioning intrinsic and extrinsic during a lesson. He didn't end up actually explaining the two terms though, because he could see that the majority of the class was getting restless. I noted the terms down, and decided to make them part of this blog, and share the knowledge that we could have had. (Note that the definitions look pretty complicated, and Mr. V. would have explained it a lot better.)
These terms are used in a lot of contexts,but in this case, I am using the philosophical definition.
These words are used in relation to the value and properties of something. I've come to the decision to explore the relation with properties today (search intrinsic values, and you might see why).
So, intrinsic and extrinsic properties.
An intrinsic property is a property that an object has of itself, independent of other things.
An extrinsic property is one that depends on the object's relationship with other things.
A very good example that I saw when researching was: For example, mass (generally the term describing the amount of matter in an object) is a physical intrinsic property of any physical object, whereas weight is an extrinsic property that varies depending on the strength of the gravitational field in which the object is placed.
David Lewis (a philosopher of the late 20th century) wrote some criteria defining these terms and what makes them different, and this one helped me to understand: The intrinsic properties of something depend only on that thing; whereas the extrinsic properties of something may depend, wholly or partly, on something else.

To finish on a lighter and simpler note, the phobia connected to the fear of having peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth is known as Arachibutyrophobia.

Un jour au Zoo

Today, being July the 10th, is my grandad's 73rd birthday. To celebrate, we went to the zoo. I baked him a cake last night, because I am such a fantastic granddaughter, and iced it this morning. It did look nice, even if I do say so myself. It was just a plain ol' butter cake, but I baked it in ring-tin, and iced it this morning with a butter icing, and decorated it with milk chocolate buttons. As I walked through the crowded cafe towards our table, he gave me a puzzled look, and when I sat down he said, 'Feeling a bit hungry there, eh?'. (The plate had a food covering on it.) The good quarter of an hour I spent annoying the family with the electric beater last night was well worth his smile and thanks.

I love the zoo. I love the animals, and really enjoy walking around the paths. But still, I always feel sad thinking that the small enclosure I see in front of me is their world- a prison. The zoo is a great institution , and it promotes conservation and animal welfare, but man-made nature can never beat the real thing. I think it's better when animals are born into the zoo, instead of coming from the wild. However, alive is better than dead, and that's the reality of life in the wild these days. Deforestation, pollution, poaching and hunting- even the jungles most ferocious beast can't survive these predators.
Though, my apologies, I'm not here to rant about animal rights and the environment (not tonight, at any rate), so I will veer back to the topic that I was on.

This morning, at approximately 11.25, I fed a giraffe a stick of celery from my hands. I've done the giraffe encounter before when I was younger, but it's one of those things that doesn't get old. Giraffes are incredible. They're beautiful. Their huge black eyes framed by long lashes. Their graceful neck. One day, I wouldn't mind seeing some of them in the wild.

As we walked along the Pridelands walkway, biding our time until my grandparents arrived, we saw zebras, lion, flamingos, ostriches, and rhinos. Yes, all common things to see in a zoo, but pretty amazing if you really think about it.
We crawled through the meercat tunnels and I got freaked out by the porcupine (he was huge, and just kept staring at me).
We saw a hippo get out of a mud pool (it involved a lot of effort, you know) and saw a little blue penguin stare up at the crowds, shivering.
We watched the otters showing off, an squeaking in an interesting way, which I'm sure is natural, but not what you would expect.
We saw the baby monkeys and their mothers, and watched them play and snuggle.
The ring-tailed lemurs were sunning themselves- the funniest sight. Arms out, sitting in a very human-like way, head lolling; just gorgeous.

On the monkey playground I randomly jumped onto my older brother's back and he started running along the balancing beam which was sitting on springs. Needless to say, we fell off, and a very public and embarrassing way.
Even the time in Darwin's Cafe made me smile. My cake was a hit, and there was a display on the wall all about palm oil- with contact numbers and everything! There was a big sign, much to my pleasure, saying, We're endeavouring to be palm oil free- are you?
And they even had wooden knives and paper plates- recyclable, yay!

On the way home we decided to stop at the local pioneer village, Jack and I subsequently ran around like mad, having a grand old time. I picked up rubbish, for the second time is as many days- doing a good deed for the environment, and all. When Jack started to eat grass, we went home.
It was a great day- highly enjoyable. It got me thinking about a career in zoo-keeping.

As they say, you learn something every day, and today that was: there are twelve tonnes of salt circulating at any one time in the sea lion enclosure- bet you didn't know that, did ya'?

Russian Fudge

I had originally planned to write all about the history and origins of fudge, but after a bit of research, I've found that there are very few agreed-upon facts, and many un-interesting theories.
One naming-theory I read, though, seemed feasible and mildly amusing. On Valentine's Day (February 14) in 1886, someone made a ''bungled" (fudged) batch of caramels, which resulted in what we now know as fudge.

Fudge is quite bad for you. It's basically just different forms of melted sugar and fat, boiled, then hardened. Let's see, there's the three and a half cups of pure caster sugar; golden syrup which is water and sugar' sweetened condensed milk, which is sugar, fat, and some milk; and butter.

When cooked right, however, all that knowledge won't register as the heavenly treat melts in your mouth. It's one of those foods that you could easily eat until you feel sick, and then eat some more. Trawling through the Internet, I've seen numerous forums complaining about how difficult fudge-making is- but from my first attempt, I have always found it very easy. Literally, I just out it all in a pot, heat it, and boil it for 30-40 minutes. It hasn't failed yet.

My friends and I did a fudge stall for our Business Studies practical, and we sold out. Needless to say, a lot of people are thankful to whoever fudged up their caramels 122 years ago.

Here is the recipe I use when making my delectable Russian fudge. It's based on the Chelsea Sugar recipe which you can find on their website. I do hope you give it a try, you won't regret it!

What ya' need:
125g butter (a quarter of a standard block), but I've used marg. before, and it didn't make much of a difference.
3 tbs golden syrup.
1/2 cup milk.
3 1/2 white sugar (yet I've used raw sugar, and it didn't ruin the batch).
1/2 tsp salt.
Half a regular-sized can of sweetened condensed milk (200g)
2 tsp vanilla essence

Grease a 20-25cm tin or baking dish then line with baking paper. Ready your electrical beater so you can access it quickly (plug it in, but don't switch it on).
Place everything in a large, heavy-based pot, except the essence. Make sure the handle of the saucepan is heat-proof and strongly attached to the pot. Mix all the ingredients over a gentle heat, until the mixture is a smooth consistency and the sugar has dissolved.
Then, stir the mixture with a wooden spoon over the heat until it begins to boil (you may need to increase the heat), and keep it at this stage for about 45 minutes, constantly stirring.
After that time has passed, you will see it is really thick, and has reached what people call "soft-ball" stage. This means that you could form shapes with the mixture and it would hold, but please don't, because it will be about 120'C.
Personally, I have never seen it go this thick, but as long as it is harder to stir and denser than liquid, you should be fine. Remember: the longer you cook it, the quicker it sets.
To me, the perfect fudge is one that goes hard almost immediately.
Once you are at this stage, take the pot off the heat, and add the vanilla. Beat with the electrical beater at high speed until your mixture has lost it's gloss and becomes thicker. It should smell delicious and look like liquid gold- but, no matter how tempting, don't dip your fingers in, because it's practically molten.
Be careful not to beat it for too long, because it will begin to set- always keep that in mind.
Pour it straight into the dish, and scrape as much from the pot as you can (you can use a spatula, but that's another utensil to wash).
"Scour" the fudge after you have poured it in; run a knife through it so it will break into pieces easily.
Leave to cool, then enjoy. It will make about 35 decent-sized pieces.

This makes a great, cheap gift, and everyone will love it.

The Class of 10SCHE

You would have seen this poem on Ms. Wilson's Wiki, and if you are in my class, would have heard it read out loud, too. This is a poem about our class, written by me. It is kind of lame and works way better when read aloud, but I think it's okay. I mean, Ms. Wilson laughed at some of the jokes, that means it's got to be good, doesn't it? Our English teacher got us all thinking about where we will be in the future- about who we will be, and what we will be doing. It's fair to say that everyone really enjoyed it. Even though the future it's confusing and frustrating and scary, it's also exciting. That is why I wrote a poem about our class reunion sometime in the future. No matter how surreal it seems, there is going to be life after school (we just have to live through NCEA, first).
Happy reading!

It was time for the high school reunion of the class of 10SCHE.
No, that doesn’t rhyme with anything.

In stumbled a person with white powder on their nose.
It was Frankie, the drug lord,
Thank goodness she remembered clothes.

Who should come in next?
But the Dr. Who himself.
Oh no, it was just Seamus
Get the poor guy some help
Just joking Seamus, put the screwdriver down, it’s super cool that you can travel through space and time.

Eve was trying to enrol everyone to vote,
While Drew was showing off his newest scars from a stoat.
Hilary bounded in; the best Silver Fern,
Followed by Grace, a doctor’s intern.

Brennyn was belly dancing on the floor,
When the sound of babies came through the door.
Eight crawled on in, as cute as can be,
Followed by their mum, no one other than Bree.

Emelia was selling houses that Gabrielle built.
And Luke was dancing around in a kilt.
That Luke guy had started a kids’ show in Scotland
And was now launching his own sippy-cup brand.

Yes, Emelia’s white-toothed smile covered the city
On cards and signs and billboards
They were almost as common as the large number of work men
Found in the back of Gab’s Ford.

Tash was endorsing some facial cream
As Scott walked in looking healthy and lean
‘Something has changed,’ one person said.
‘Yeah, I’ve given up pie and do yoga instead.’

Bobbie was a deep-sea diver
And Erica was a great mountain climber
In between tellings of heroic tales
Rory told of his time at Yale.

Bobbie in flippers
And Erica in boots,
The owl on Rory’s shoulder gave a long hoot
‘I’m Harry Potter,’ he cackled then ran into a wall
But deep down inside, aren’t we all?

Aleisha swanned in
Wearing the most beautiful coat
While Taylor walked in,
Pulling a goat.
‘I love cheese!’ He called, ‘Anyone feel like feta?’
‘Ah,’ Stephanie sighed, ‘when it comes to life, it just doesn’t get better.’

Cassandra strode in, clad in white chemist’s gear
Just back from World Laboratory Foyer
You know who is next,
World-renowned Lauren the lawyer!
She was so good she got Courtney R. out of jail
For violently protesting the rights of the whale.

Zane worked as a dermatologist in New York and
Steen had developed a self popping cork.
Courtney R. yelled, ‘Where’s the music at?’
‘Ha!’ They replied, ‘We’re so over that!’

Courtney M. was telling Josh of her time in Tanzania; her career away from home
While the young man just couldn’t stop stroking his trombone.
‘Play us a song then, or I’ll have a fit.’
‘I don’t know how to play!’ He yelled, ‘I just like to touch it!’

You see, Josh was a co-star on Luke’s show The Lukenator
A show Vinay had designed the set for.
Yes, he was one of the best interior designers
While Isaac had formed a union for miners.

Chelsea had entered, and was analysing everything
And while this was happening, Cerise began to sing.
‘She’s coming, she’s coming, Ms. Wilson is here!’
And into the room came the object of our mutual fear.

None of us wanted to get into trouble,
And if we were unsuccessful, we’d have detention on the double
But there she was, no sign of age we could see
Now, come on Ms. Wilson, give us an E!

griEVE

griEVE is a novel written by Lizzie Willcock.
The story focuses on Eve, a young girl whose mother has just disappeared from her life.
I desperately want to describe what the story is about, but no words do it justice. The blurb on the back of the very book sounds cliche to me, and after reading the book, it doesn't seem right at all.

Changed. Changes. Changing. I have the feeling that my life is about to spin into a different orbit again.
When Eve's mother disappears from her life, suddenly nothing seems certain. What has happened to her mother? Why won't her father and aunt talk about it? As Eve searches for the truth, she finds things she never expected: pain, long-buried secrets...and love.
A powerful and moving story about coping with loss and finding a way through darkness.

There's nothing wrong with it, but personally, I don't feel it accurately reflects the story depicted between the covers. I also feel that the story isn't about her coping, but about her not coping.
It's not a nice story, that's for certain.

This is the kind of book that I would like to write. A one off. Not part of a series- just... a story. An exert from someone's life. Not written with a beginning, a middle, and an end, but as if a narrator has temporarily entered somebody's life. The ending isn't a 'happy ever after', but it does resolve some issues of her life. It doesn't leave you hanging, as such, but closer to wondering what happens in the next part of her life, or where she is now.
This story does everything I consider a good story should do; it conveys emotion and it makes you think.
This story made me feel sick to my stomach, angry, and, for lack of a better term, sad.

It proves the talent of the author when three words, Summer waved back, can hold so much emotion and make the reader, i.e. me, stare at the words and read them again and again.
Eve does not have fate on her side. Her life goes from bad to worse and every person, bar one, doesn't understand her. She's treated horribly, and then she begins to treat herself that way too.

The only criticism I have is of the ending. It was a little wishy-washy, like, even now, I am not sure what exactly happened. The information that was need was still transposed, but I read it again, to try and make some more sense of it. A chapter of the book that makes you go, What...?, especially at the end, usually isn't the best. Though, my lack of understanding could easily be the fault of my ignorance, not the author's writing.

Earlier, I mentioned that this story makes you think. What of? That is a good question. Firstly, it made me realise that I am pretty darn lucky. It also made me go up and hug my mum. Ever heard the saying, You don't realise what you have until it's gone? This story gave me a insight into what it would be like losing a mother, and made me truly value my own. It helped me realise that losing control, not coping, deluding yourself- all of those things can be easier than confronting the truth. It gave me an insight into a traumatised and deeply scared young person's mind, and gave me a little understanding of what they were feeling, and why the do what they do.
We learn from our mistakes, so when you get a lesson from other's mistakes; it's priceless.

Any book that makes you feel, alters your perception in the slightest way, or adds to your archive of knowledge is well worth the time it takes to read it.
I really like this book, and am grateful to whatever made me pick it off the shelf.

Three Nights in Wonderland

Adrenaline bubbles through me. My limbs feel hollow and my knees are shaking. I can feel my heart beating against my chest. The lights dim. The crowd cheers. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum walk on stage. The only thing separating me from an audience of hundreds of people is a single red, velvet curtain.
2 minutes.
1 minute.
Get into your places.

The crowd applauds and the curtains are pulled apart. I don't see the people, though; the 400 pairs of eyes, because I am a gardener in Wonderland. I knew it's cliche, but it's true. As soon as the curtains were opened, the adrenaline just stopped. I wasn't nervous. I wasn't Eve, standing on the stage wearing tights and basically stumbling under the weight of my thick, penciled-on eyebrows- I was Two, and I was painting the roses red.

My accent, a weird combination of Irish and cockney English, comes out loud and clear. I don't forget or stumble over my seven lines. I'm just having a gossip with my pals Five and Seven.

'Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that.'
'If he's smart, he'll keep out of sight.'
'What for?'
'The fact is, miss, this 'ere ought to have been a red rose tree, but we planted a white one by mistake.'
'No miss, they're too young yet.'
'Please be careful, miss.'
'May it please your majesty, we were just trying-'

I had such a blast being involved with the school production, Alice in Wonderland.
Yes, I had to put a lot of time in. Full-day Sunday rehearsals. After school until half five.
Literally over 30 hours of listening to the same lines and going through the same scenes. Hours of waiting around- 3 hours, in fact, on the show night, for around three minutes of stage time.
It sounds bad, it barely looks worth it through my own eyes- but, in truth, it so was.
It was so much fun. Performing gives me such a rush. And those hours of waiting were spent laughing with the other cast members, and having a good time. And seeing my name in print on the programme did give me a little buzz.
I am glad that I didn't get a main part, though, there's a large amount of pressure involved. I don't know how Alice did it; she was on for the entire show, practically.
I am definitely going to try and be part of all the other school productions in future. Doing the walk down at the end of the show and hearing your friends and family cheering- it's a simply fantastic feeling.

One thing I found quite surprising was how tired I was. The play involve hardly any physical effort, but when I got home I was well and truly exhausted. The morning after the first show I had trouble opening my eyes. The following two mornings weren't any better. I suppose I was out from 5-9 each nigh,t and on the last night, Thursday, there was an after party until ten.
I must say, tripping around my room Friday morning and not truly waking up until about lunch time- it was a price I was happy to pay for the fun I had dancing and acting like an idiot during the after party.

The first night was exhilarating.
The next night, the show was a million times better- but not as exciting.
On the last night, everyone was comfortable in their character's skin.Us gardeners were lounging on the King and Queen's thrones behind the curtain.

All in all, it was, pun intended, just wonderful.

Winter Myths

As winter is now upon us, I thought it would be appropriate of me to reveal the truth about some myths that surround the season and the cold weather it brings with it.

So, what is a cold, and how do you get one?
The common cold; the annoying illness we know all too well. Despite the old wives' tale you surely would have heard of, you don't catch colds, or become more susceptible to them, by standing out in the rain, sitting in the wind with wet hair, or cold weather. The runny noses and other unpleasant symptoms are all caused by a virus. These viruses are contagious, and are generally passed on from person to person by the touching of the same objects. Keyboards, door-handles, telephones; if someone with a cold has touched touched their nose, or coughed or sneezed into their hands and then touched an object such as this, if you come along and come in to contact with it later, the virus will have been passed on.

Then why do we get more colds in winter?
The reason behind the epidemic of colds in winter is not directly related to the weather. In the chilly season we tend to stay inside more, and therefore closer to virus-ridden people and objects. Also, if it is raining, gusty, or snowing, we close the windows, keeping the viruses in the room. Think about it, if a cold, wet climate caused colds, wouldn't Eskimos and people living in the Antarctic suffer severely? In truth, though, they don't, because those regions are pretty much germ free.

Why, then, hasn't anyone invented a cure for the common cold?
As I previously mentioned, the common cold is a viral infection. These infections can be caused by up to 200 different types of viruses. After a virus has infected your body's cells, your body will produce antibodies which fight the virus. For many years after catching the virus, your body will continue to produce these antibodies, and prevent you from catching that virus again. As you may have concluded, even though your immune system has antibodies to fight numerous different cold viruses, you will still continue to catch them because of the large amount of them that there are. Antibiotics would in fact be harmful if used to fight the common cold. This is because viruses enter and multiply within the bodies own cells, and so any antibiotic would have to kill the body's cells to effectively kill the virus.

You can avoid catching these viruses by washing your hands regularly and getting outdoors as much you can during the winter months.

Why on Earth do we sneeze? And How?
A sneeze occurs when we feel a tickle behind the nostril and a nerve sends a message to the brain. The body sneezes to clear the breathing passages, and get rid of potential irritants.
To sneeze, the abdomen, chest, diaphragm, throat, vocal chords, and eye lids all have to work together. To get rid of the irritants such as dust, pollen, or pepper, our chest muscles have to contract with enough force to squeeze air up from the lungs and out through the nose. Said air can reach speeds of up to 160km/ph.

Rhinorrhea is the medical term for a running nose.
But why? You ask. Well, it comes from the Greek words, 'rhinos', meaning 'of the nose', and 'rhoia', meaning 'a flowing'.
[MedicineNet.com]

The answers to all these nagging questions and more are within the bright pink covers of Francesca Gould's book, Why is Yawning Contagious?