Baby's First Conference

WELL. I thought post-dissertation life would mainly involve luxuriating in front of the TV watching endless repeats of Murder She Wrote, but it turns out to be even busier than before!

Alongside PhD applications, conference abstracts, and discussing potential teaching opportunities, I have started a new job; I'm now Project Officer for the Temporal Co-ordination in Communication project run jointly by York and Cambridge universities. My role sounds far more fancypants than it actually is, but basically I am working on gesture and rhythm in speech, and analysing audio and visual data in various ways to investigate how participants negotiate communication using both their voices and bodies. It's SUPER interesting, and I'm enjoying it immensely - I learn about eight thousand new things a day, and working on an actual linguistics research project is the most amazing opportunity.

Wednesday saw my lovely bestie Becky visit Grand Old York, and we had a fabulous time getting spontaneous piercings, exploring the city and the Minster and such (I love any opportunity to go Full Tourist; despite living here for a year, it never gets boring), and kicking through bright autumn leaves like the big kids we are. Subsequently joined by Ed, we all later prepared my house for a Hallowe'en party which went off wonderfully*, with costumes ranging from the typical (ghosts, skeletons, etc.) through a-typical (Caeser, Alice Cooper), to the quite magnificent (a zom-bee, from an apiologist friend). My offering was Daphne from Scooby Doo**:

Jinkies

Following a fantastic few days (and a discombobulating trip around Illuminating York, which you honestly couldn't have thought up unless you were in some kind of trippy fever dream), a different Becky and I headed off to Manchester for the New Researchers Forum in Linguistics, where we would both be presenting our MA research.

I've never been to a conference before, let alone presented at one, so the whole experience was terrifyingly exhilarating. I learnt a staggering amount (with several of the talks being directly relevant to my work, which was incredible), met some truly wonderful people I very much hope to see again, and according to Sam, did my first conference 'properly' i.e. went out to the pub the night before giving my presentation.

My talk had run long every single time I did it, but I think the nerves of the day brought out my usual, jabbery self and I garbled my way through it just on time without missing out too many important points. Questions were helpful and not too intimidating, and people were wonderfully lovely about the whole thing. I know I have a tendency to a) ramble and b) flail about, so it's good to know people got the jist despite my ridiculousness.

Giving it my best presentation face (photo by Becky).

I think the best bit about the weekend was just being able to casually chat about, amongst other things, linguistics and language with like-minded, lovely folk who are just as keen-beany as I am. Glorious. I can see why conferences are so addictive!

One final thing that came from the weekend was a sprawling Twitter-based game of #linguistmovies, which spread into #linguistsongs, and got so fun I decided to collect everything together here - a page which will no doubt be constantly extended, as we continue to furiously procrastinate from our real work by making terrible/excellent puns. Hell yeah, linguists.

*even with the presence of a Jimmy Savile costume, despite my assurance that I wouldn't let anybody in if they were dressed up like him. Not big or clever, guys.

**I'm more of a Velma myself, but my hair is the right colour for Daph.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Were this blog a real-life book, I would be dragging it out from under my bed and blowing dust off the cover. I have been spectacularly neglectful recently; dissertation-madness can take most of the blame, but in general it has been the most spectacularly awful two months*. Heartbreak! Family illness! Everyone I love having emotional breakdowns and crises at the same time! etc. etc. moan whinge.

I am only allowing myself the briefest of whines about all this gumph, however, because the whole damn point of this blog post is change! Newness! Epiphanies! I have one more week until I move into my new house for the year with a lovely bunch of new and old friends, and I am so ready for a change I can't even tell you. New house, new academic year, new ventures - I'm currently looking for work in York, while I spend the year applying for PhD schemes and funding. Really looking forward to getting to know new people, developing new skills and having a bit of a brain break. (Not too much, mind. I'm presenting at the Manchester Salford New Researchers Forum in Linguistics in November - aaaaaah!)

In amongst all the ANGST of the past few months, I have found both solace and eternal frustration in my dissertation, which I submitted eight days ago.

It liiiives.

My preeeecious. Good lord it's terrifying thinking that someone may currently by hacking at this with a red pen, cackling wildly at my terrible prose and ludicrous ideas. I'm working on a blog post that will (hopefully) explain the content of the thesis in non-linguisticky terms, so I will refrain from doing that now, but it has been a labour of love getting it done, and - much as I'm worried about the impending judgement - I'm proud of it.

The MA has finished with a fizzle rather than a bang. Variable deadlines, people going on holiday and a general bereft melancholy that has beset us all has meant that there wasn't really a definitive ending to the whole thing. The finicky time between submitting and moving house has been filled with seeing people before they leave, museum-visiting and frantic job-applying. I feel really lucky that I've made great friends with people from various far-flung corners of the world this year, and hope to visit lots of them in the future. Today's particularly tearful goodbye was to Ali and Bri, two wonderful, wonderful girls who have made this year immeasurably better. You know people are friends for life when they screech AVPM songs with you at 2am <3

And today? Today I have fallen in love with cycling. I bought some roller blades a couple of months ago; I was always more of a skatey child than a bikey one, so wanted to reignite my love of skating. I did, but the pavements and roads around York and prohibitively bad (cobbles! *shakes fist*), and it just wasn't viable to use it as a method of transportation. I'm going to keep skating recreationally, but I bought Ali's bike from her to give that a go instead.

IT'S WONDERFUL. I now wish I'd had a bike this year - I was so worried I'd be bad after so many years off, but, whaddya know, riding a bike really IS like riding a bike! I fancied getting out of the house today, so I cycled off with no particular destination in mind, and ended up accidentally cycling about 20 miles altogether! Around local villages, up and down the Ouse, and the whole Solar System route, all in beautiful sunshine, taking in the most wonderful Yorkshire scenery. My thighs may not forgive me tomorrow, and I am already suffering from sore butt syndrome, but it was such a wonderful way to spend and afternoon. I returned quite invigorated :)

Cycle-weary, but sunshiney happy.

At the final solar system point - Pluto. Still a planet, dammit!

More regular blog posts, including (I hope) more cycling adventures, to come!

*I appreciate I haven't updated since the end of May, but shh.

On Stoke, and a change of heart

Here are two facts about me:

1. I grew up in Newcastle-under-Lyme, a small town right next to Stoke-on-Trent.
2. I used to be ashamed of this first fact.

And a third.

3. I'm no longer ashamed of the first fact, but I am ashamed of the second.

I'm from Stoke. I'm not really a Stokie, nor will I ever be, really, but I'm sick of being embarrassed by my hometown, and I'm angry with myself for having been so in the past. I've had what you might call a minor epiphany, of late, and have realised that a lot of the resentment I held towards Stoke as a city was wrapped up in my own, under-the-surface classism and prejudice, something I'm hoping to rid myself of in the future. Here's hoping this is the start of it.

To provide a bit of history/geography, Stoke-on-Trent is a city in the North West Midlands of the UK, approximately equidistant from Manchester in the North and Birmingham in the South, not far from Crewe and Alton Towers*. 

Look, there it is!

Notable Stokies include the novelist Arnold Bennett; Edward Smith, Captain of the Titanic; footballer Stanley Matthews; Slash from Guns n Roses (for the first five years of his life, anyway); and - of course - Robbie Williams**. It's quite unique in its construction, being a conurbation of six towns - Burslem, Tunstall, Hanley, Fenton, Longton and Stoke*** - which also means it has a complex identity and fragmented sense of self, juxtaposed with a strong sense of local pride.

Historically, it has always been an industrial centre, surrounded by moorlands. Its pottery, mining and steel industries were some of the best in the country, with Wedgewood pottery being its most prominent and impressive export. However, recession and the Conservative government of the 80s led to much of this being closed or downsized - a huge hit for the city's economy. It's never quite recovered.

Perhaps owing to a combination of its faltering industry, lack of 'historic' and stereotypically pleasant architecture and portrayal in the media (as well as other factors), Stoke is often used as a shorthand for non-affluence, dreariness and/or unpleasantness. For example, in Charlie Brooker's Gameswipe, he described a video game which depicted a post-apocalyptic landscape strewn with dead bodies and toxic waste, and likened it to 'living in Stoke'. The amount of times, when telling people I'm from Stoke, I've been greeted with sighs of patronising pity, is really quite ridiculous.

Thing is, I used to buy into it, too. I was embarrassed. Stoke isn't pretty - it's not York or Durham or Cambridge. And it's not a new, thriving urban centre like Manchester or Sheffield. It's stagnant, it's struggling, and it's deprived. It has poor levels of heathcare, a high number of families relying on benefits, and was recently listed as the eighth poorest place in the UK. Football-related violence and BNP support are rife and widely-reported**** in the area. But I've realised that doesn't make it a bad place and doesn't make its people any lesser, nor does it justify a) my being embarrassed by it, or b) people openly mocking it.

I don't claim to be working class - to say would be appropriative and stupid. I may have been mocked by my Southern friends for not trying pesto until I was 18, but I had a middle-class, comfortable upbringing, which is not the case for many people in Stoke. There is an inextricable link between working class origins and violence, low intelligence and laziness, a link perpetuated by the media, and by the inherent classism that many middle class people carry with them. This isn't the place to get into social disenchantment, but the coverage of the London riots displays it perfectly - a generation of people left stranded by their government driven to extremes, yet brushed off with statements about yob culture and poor familial discipline.

It makes me quite disgusted with myself to admit this, but I think my rejection of being from Stoke has a lot to do with my need to detach myself from the city's poor reputation. While I don't think it's the 'working class'-ness specifically that I rejected, the stigma of being from Stoke always annoyed me, and I tried my hardest to disassociate myself. Going to University, the majority of people around you are new and excitingly middle-class, so any opportunity to have a quick laugh at my awful home town was embraced, without me realising that I was perpetuating the horrid stereotypes myself, and adding to the barrage of classism people face day-in, day-out.

Visiting recently has given me a much-needed punch in the face when it comes to my mocking of Stoke. Having read more on classism and prejudice, I realised how awful my own actions were, and how horribly haughty and stuck-up I'd been each time I'd looked down upon people who live in Stoke. I'm absolutely no better than anybody who lives there, and to think otherwise is to have a sense of my own self-importance that is beyond measure. Hideous.

I'm reminded of Jane Austen's Emma, where the eponymous hero mocks the 'tiresome' and lowly Mrs Bates, and is thoroughly chastised by Mr Knightley. 'She should secure your compassion, not your contempt!' Knightley angrily cries, admonishing Emma for thinking herself so above Mrs Bates, who is financially hard-done-by and considered ridiculous by higher society. That's precisely the case with me and Stoke. Stoke has had a bloody hard time of it, and continues to do so. It's not pretty, it's not affluent, and it's not the cultural capital of the country, but mocking it is cruel and unnecessary. It gets a hard enough time as it is - I should be defending it, helping somehow, not tearing it down even further. By speaking poorly of it on such a regular basis, particularly as a native, I'm only perpetuating the awful stereotypes it is associated with, and furthering its poor treatment by the public, a treatment wrapped up in classism and prejudice.

The accent

One of the most salient stigmas I distanced myself from was the accent. I remember being about seven and coming home from school, talking to my mum about a book. The general vowel for the 'oo' in book in the North of England is [ʊ], like the vowel in full; in Stoke, however, it's often pronounced as [u:] like the vowel in cool. When I told my mum about the bewk I'd read, she told me I wasn't to say it like that, that it was wrong, and that I should say buck, luck and cuck. I've said that ever since, and have often cringed when people did otherwise, and have looked down upon the Stoke accent, thinking it common or improper.

I was a fucking idiot, as I have later realised. Many years of linguistic study has made me realise that, no matter how many times people say that there is a correct way to speak (and believe me, people say it A LOT), no accent is intrinsically better than another. They are only judged as 'better' because of the arbitrary associations between location, accent and personal characteristics, and the rise of the Southern 'standard'. I repeat: NO ACCENT IS INTRINSICALLY BETTER AT THE JOB OF COMMUNICATING THAN ANY OTHER. It's that simple. People will say that some accents sound ugly, stupid, or wrong, and they are of course entitled to their opinion, but it's important to understand that such opinions come from years of ingraining prescriptivism into our collective consciousness.

That's why I'm hoping to study the Stoke accent in detail - for a variety with so much idiosyncrasy, connection to identity and stigma attached to it, there's been very little academic linguistic analysis going on. I'm looking at a specific feature for my MA dissertation, and - with a lot of luck and hard work - I hope to use my potential PhD to document, explore and understand the complex relationship between the city's accent, its residents, and the general public.

In my own, quite pathetic way, these projects are like my love letter to Stoke. They're not going to change the world, but I hope that, in a small way, I'll be able to contribute to softening some of the stereotypes people have about Stoke, and I can make amends with the city who, for better or worse, made me who I am.

You're damn right I do.

----------

*I add in these details because, notoriously, nobody knows where Stoke actually is, and I've had to use some or all of these descriptions when trying to explain its location in the past. It comes from being part of the forgotten, unspecified Midlands, I think, combined with not being a notable visiting/tourist destination. Most people's reaction tends to be 'yeah, I went through the there on the train.'

**Definitely our most famous alumnus, it was originally pretty cool to be associated with Robbie, and to be able to tell people I once served his mum in Boots (claim to fame!!1!). I think we tend to play down the association since 'Do The Rudebox' came out. You understand. I'm listening to Escapology as I finish this post -- why did you fire Guy Chambers, Rob? Whyyyy?

***Bennett's 'Anna of the Five Towns' comes from this - he decided to omit one, because it sounded better with five.

****While the tone of this article is often frustratingly patronising, it accurately sheds light on why the citizens of an ailing city, let down by Labour and staunchly anti-Conservative, often drift towards the far right.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside

I am British. As such, when I experience freak, out-of-season sunshine, I roll up my trousers, throw on my douchebag sunglasses and defiantly bake myself. 'It's March!' the haterz cry, 'March, you fools!', yet I push my fingers into my ears and chime 'la la la I'm not listening' as my pale, pale skin pinkens within five minutes of seeing the sun.

Yes, for the last week we've been experiencing a HEATWAVE. I should, by all rights, dislike the sun, being the palest of pale Janets who burns preposterously easily, but as soon as the sun comes out I'm infected with SPRING FEVER, wherein I listen to happy-clappy folk music non-stop, skip in public and beam at strangers. I don't dislike the late-in-year seasons, but spring and summer are my favourites, and make me even more giddily enthusiastic than I already am. Which is saying something.

Caught up in the spirit of the sunshine, Becky and I decided that we very much needed to sack of any work we should have been doing and hotfoot it to the seaside. Enlisting Alex, Jamie and Ellen, we got an early train to Scarbrorough on Thursday morning, and spent the day being achingly touristy and embarrassing, and loving every second.

After eating our lunch on the beach at 10.30am (deciding early on that we were totally buying fish and chips later on), we steadfastly refused to move from the sand as the day took its sweet time heating up. (Hoodies on the beach - yeah, we did the whole, clichéd shebang.) Cheering when the sun finally showed its face, we proceeded to play tick, leapfrog and show off our manifold gymnastics skillz.

Y M C A!

Y O R K!

We then preceded to eat our bodyweight in seaside-y treats (fish and chips, ice-cream, doughnuts, rock), before making the sensible decision that we should swim in the North Sea. In March. Yup, five postgrad students thought that would be a good idea. We managed about half an hour of intermittently running in and out of the water and screaming bloody murder as it froze our respective reproductive organs, which was a thoroughly enjoyable endeavour despite it making our skin actually burn with the cold.

My cornea-burning fashion sense: let me show you it.

Sunny, smiley beachfolk.

It was basically the most delightful of days, spent with the most delightful of people, and was the perfect break from the essay madness that has been clutching us in its grasp. One assignment down, with another to go, plus two exams and a dissertation proposal to prepare for, it's been heavy duty, of late. But with seaside sojourns as joyful as this one a possibility, I realise how lucky and happy I am right now.

Silent films, Streetcars and super exciting sojourns!

I haven't posted here since what I later realised was Valentine's Day (only the coolest of girls spend the ~most romantic day of the year writing blog posts about Shakespeare and fake sheep), because life seems to have SPIRALLED OUT OF CONTROL somewhat, not quite giving me time to get a foothold.

I expected the past fortnight to be a little calmer (not least because the first five days were Reading Week, the euphemistically titled break from studies that encourages most people to piss off on holiday), but with a formative phonetics assignment, several articles to write and subedit for my freelance job* and a smattering of this thing I believe people call a social life, I found myself with less time than ever. Throw in a motherbitch of a cold and the last fortnight pretty much flew by in a glorious, mental blur.

I did, however, manage to take in some culcha, feelings about which will be vomited below, in traditional listy format.

THE ARTIST
Bringing the grand total of main 2012 Best Picture Oscar nominated films I have actually seen to one, I got to see The Artist on Thursday evening. But, to be fair, it was the only one that, on the surface, made me want to watch it (aside from Tinker, Tailor, which I need to get on asap, because god knows I love me some tragic homosexual spies).

While I'm not sure it deserves the utter, unrelenting adoration it has received in every single way (in that, while wonderful, it was flawed), I bloody loved it. The combination of the novel, unique cinemagoing experience, vintage charm of the era, beautiful direction and extreme handsomeness of Jean Dujardin (more on that later) made it an utter delight from start to finish.

The direction was, as I said, beautiful; one shot in particular, in which George Valentin is angstily sitting at a mirrored table, and pours a glass of whiskey over his reflection on the surface, was really just staggeringly well done. The costumes were stunning, and I'm not quite sure who was more adorable, Berenice Bejo or Uggie the dog (utter scene-stealer)**.

While George Valentin was perhaps a tad whiny as a character, Jean Dujardin was heartbreakingly good at both beaming swagger and utter dejection. Also, as Emma has previously put it, his face should really just be pictured adjacent to the 'handsome' entry in the dictionary.

I mean REALLY. That's basically just obnoxiously handsome***.

The music was perfectly lovely, and I loved the experience of seeing a silent film (though I am Team Talkies - sorry George!). I found myself holding my breath in parts, terrified of disturbing the silence, and I admit that other people's rustling becomes that bit more frustrating in this setting, but I wouldn't give up the cinema experience of The Artist for a DVD viewing in a million years.

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE @ Liverpool Everyman
(once again, I have taken the majority of this review from a shameful email to Rob)

A brilliant, uncomfortably intense production of a play I was utterly unfamiliar with (I do shame myself with my ignorance at times) before Saturday afternoon. Weak in parts, Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton shone in the most painful way.

I admit, I was kind of ruined for at least the first half-hour, because dear lord some of the accents were ATROCIOUS. I'm no expert on the specifics of the New Orleans accent, but the supporting cast were jarringly bad at the start, and it made it very, very difficult to engage with the characters straight from the off. It seemed so pantomime, so distant, if that even makes any sense. Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton were much better, but Matthew Flynn (Mitch) in particular was in and out like a yoyo! Which is such a shame, because his performance was heartbreakingly good.

The stage was three-quarters of a room, which rotated to reveal an outside spiral staircase at the side and occasionally only gave us shots of the action through an open window, which I really liked. You could really feel the stickiness and claustrophobia of the tiny apartment, and how much that must have driven Blanche to distraction, particularly being so close to Stan.

Amanda was undoubtedly the star - she was INCREDIBLE. When we first meet Blanche it was really, really hard for me to see her as a real person; because her extended periods of solo dialogue seem so unnatural and staged, she seems like a written character rather than an actual person, if that makes any sense. She's SO dramatic and SO verbose that she seems ridiculous, but as the play continues and you see that it's just her, and that verbal diarrhoea is her reflex, her being terrified of silence and being alone, a frantic need to talk and talk and have someone listen (which plays off so heartbreakingly well against Mitch's need to have someone talk to him, oh my soul).

AND SAM TROUGHTON. Having only seen Sam as doe-eyed hopeless cases, I was completely unprepared for Stan's swaggering dickishness, but he absolutely killed it. He's basically all chest, and it is MAGNIFICENT. His Polish-American accent was very strong, and he was masterful at that sinister sexiness that absolutely made you understand why Stella fell in love with him in the first place, and remains so entranced by him. He was equal parts menacing and heartbreaking, and filled the stage brilliantly.

Also, and I am toning down the creepy A LOT right now, daaaaaaamn Troughton! Where'd you get them arms? Flex them for me a little more! Grasp that bottle/doorframe/wrist a little harder! Oh God I hate myself, but he was ridiculously attractive, and spent a good 40% of the play changing his shirt.

And this one time he totally poured a bottle of beer all over himself while wearing a vest.
It was awesome.

UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE!!!!111!1!1!!
So on Sunday, in what was basically the pinnacle of my existence, I got to go to Granada Studios in Manchester to watch the filming of University Challenge. Since my darling friend Becky ass-kicked her way into the captain spot, I've been spending an awful lot of time with the team as they've trained (having subsequently come to accept my own extreme intellectual inferiority), and have become disgustingly fond of them all. They're all wonderful, stupidly smart humans, and I was so honoured to have been able to go and watch them.

Of course, as this series is not airing until July, I am strictly verboten from divulging any of the scores or successes, but I can give you a giddy account of the day - which, I'm sure you'll agree, is even better.

I TOOK THIS PICTURE. THAT'S HOW CLOSE I WAS.

Arriving late, I was made to sit on my own at the front, and thus had to contain my ridiculous excitement at being on the University Challenge set oh my godddddd. INSIDER FACT: they hold the nameplates on with sellotape. Oh yeah, no expense spared. I eventually found some people supporting Warwick Uni, who were just as exuberantly hyperactive as I was, and spend a good few hours freaking the fuck out every time we heard the theme tune or Paxman walked past.

SPEAKING OF PAXMAN: there's some feelings I never thought I'd have. He's kind of simultaneously the worst person - really rude and obnoxious, quite stroppy and a little too overly fond of Oxbridge colleges for my liking - but also brilliant - he was fab with the teams, and cracking jokes throughout. Also, the commanding thing? Yeah. Pleasant.

He also may have walked past us on the way out and I may have taken a photo. Just a little bit.

We got to watch four matches, and all of them were brilliant. We also did a lot of scary 'filming the audience applauding' shots, so there's my claim to fame for the next ten years sorted. Basically, it was the best day ever, and the York team are my absolute heroes for dealing with the utterly terrifying prospect that is Jeremy Paxman firing questions at you at speed.

Man, this blogpost got LONG. I'm going to go drink tea with Bri before salsa class. Laterz.

*I write and subedit for publicservice.co.uk, by the by.** HE WORE A FUCKING BOW TIE TO THE OSCARS KILL ME.
*** If you have been intrigued by this ridiculous specimen of handsomehood (if not, have you not eyes?!), then I insist you go here to briefly luxuriate in his extreme handsomeness, and here to see how fucking adorable he is in real life, too.

A fortnight of firsts!

The last two weeks have been an epoch of elementary experiences (horrendously clumsy and slightly nonsensical alliteration, yeah!), all of which have been quite monumentally delightful, and so I thought a blog post was in order. I'm always up for trying new things, no matter what they may be, and you know how the saying goes - if at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not your sport.

HAGGIS
I was lucky enough to be treated to my first proper Burns supper on the 25th January. I say 'proper Burns supper' - it was a charmingly haphazard affair, orchestrated by our resident Scot (the aptly names Scott), who provided a traditional dinner and some not-so-traditional speeches. The haggis itself was delicious - very strong, and I couldn't eat much of it on its own (much nicer paired with a forkful of neeps and tatties), but peppery and warm and extremely filling. Scott did a wee speech about the enduring relevance of Burns' poetic message and his national importance, which was delightful, and us awful English types subsequently lowered the tone by reciting rude poetry about each other. A cracking night, in all.

YOGA
Last Wednesday saw my first Yoga class. I've never thought twice about it, but some friends were going, and I was looking for new opportunities for exercise, having been a little underwhelmed by the trampolining society up here. It was an absolutely brilliant workout, and I thoroughly enjoyed it - though it was bloody tough. The class was organised so the more difficult, standing postures were tackled first (many of which saw me trembling like a leaf), before the respite of sitting/lying positions. I could really feel the benefit throughout, and while I don't quite sign on to the ~finding your inner core~ namby-pamby-ness, as a strengthening and flexibility exercise, it was brilliant.

The next day, my main feelings were OW OW FUCKETY OW MY ABS WHYYYYY, but I still maintain it was a worthy use of my time.

SALSA
I am writing this in the half-hour before my second salsa class, and the fact that I'm going back for seconds should hopefully indicate how much I loved my first. It was great fun - a little socially awkward, of course, because omg we have to dance with BOYS what if we get COOTIES, etc. But after everyone had settled down, it was a fun hour of partner switching and sashaying.

I blame Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights entirely for my choosing a salsa class, and I am SO glad I did. I danced for eleven years, and didn't realise how much I'd missed it until last week - I felt a real fizz in my bones, an excitement that's been absent for the last five years, one I'm ecstatic to have back. It's a new style for me, and I'm very much looking forward to progressing with it.

edit: This is added after my second salsa class, wherein I stayed for both the beginners and advanced lessons. Oh sweet lord. It was strenuous, and very tough, but I think I managed to hold my own fairly well, despite massive dizziness - so much spinning! Highlight of the night has to be the tall Tom Burke-alike who, upon seeing my Shakespeare t-shirt, proceeded to recite Sonnet 18 as we danced. Swoon!

SHEFFIELD
I spent last weekend in the delightful company of Becky and pals in Sheffield - the main reason for the visit being to see Propeller's The Winter's Tale (which gets its own blog post, spectacular as it was), we nevertheless spent some times exploring what was, to me, a whole new city. And what a charming one it is, with its fountains and fountains and fountains (seriously, so many fountains). I did have a rather embarrassing moment wherein I spotted a restaurant called Bessemer's; I piped up with the thought that it must be named for Henry Bessemer, who invented molten steel (Sheffield being a famous steel town), and when asked how I knew such a factoid, had to respond that I learnt it from yet another Horrible Histories song. Still, at least I knew it, right?

SOUP
My lovely housemate Cath and I made soup for the first time, and naive little me was staggered by how cheap and easy it was. Ours was leek and potato, complete with homemade bread rolls, and we ate so much we could barely move. Excellent stuff.

CARD GAMES
Finally, I spent Sunday night with the superlative Bri and Ali, swapping our favourite card games. I imparted my Slam skills (and subsequently lost - I'm clearly that good a teacher), Bri showed us a collaborative solitaire-like game called Kings in the Corner, and we also played Mao. However, I have chosen to re-christen that one to Mao (Ali is mean), because Ali is MEAN. I say that, she's not actually mean, but the GAME is mean, and the game means that she has to be mean. Basically, you have to figure out the rules for yourself as play continues, and so it resulted in Ali handing me penalty card after penalty card for reasons I could not fathom while I panicked aloud and was subsequently told off for talking. However, it was brilliant fun. (But Ali is mean.)

ALSO IT SNOWED HERE! FINALLY!
If I ever wake up to a blanket of snow outside my window and don't grin like an excited seven-year-old, just shoot me, because I am already dead. Stomping home through the snow at gone midnight on Sunday meant I could happily dance about in the absence of anybody else nearby. And that I did. Glorious.