Blogs
The Web adventures of a closet geek
- 29 Jan 2007 08:45
I Google everything. One of my favourite lecturers just left without any warning, so what's a girl to do? Naturally, I Googled his name and areas of expertise and followed up all leads that looked credible. I got one clue from the university web site, and after that it was easy. This weekend he will be giving a seminar at a certain place for a certain office to probably some very clever people and also most probably some very distinguished dignitaries. So now I know. But why did I do this? The first reason was that I did it because I can, let us face it, I'm nosey. Plus he was an incredible lecturer; possibly the best quality lecturer I've so far experienced, and part of me wanted to find an email where I could thank him. Another reason is that last time I saw him we were discussing future plans for the department, which he has now left... just like that.
Basically I'm sulky, because dammit, I need good teaching! Stop leaving me! I've started taking this personally. He's not the first one to do it. Do they not want to teach me? Am I an awful student? First I blame them for being callous, then I despise myself for driving them away (obviously, they all hated me in particular, whether I'd ever spoken to them or not, my reputation must be preceding me these days), and finally, reality sets in. The problem with university is that everything is so cosy, you assume everyone has found their dream job and is busying carving out a wonderful little academic hole for themselves here in Swansea. And Swansea's so fabulous; I can't imagine why anyone would want to leave, surely? What I always seem to realise last is that actually, these people are on their way up, that Swansea is, for some, a stepping stone. And that I should be proud to be part of that stepping stone. Who knows, perhaps, during a conversation with a lecturer, maybe they thought, 'now here's a young talented lady who simply doesn't need my help – I can see she could do it all on her own. You know what, I should move on, where the students are not so brilliant. What a shining star she is'. Yes, well, maybe that's stretching the imagination. But still. I'll never know, so I think I'll stick with that, thanks.
Copying accents
- 20 Nov 2006 09:00
Turns out Charlie once had plans to be enter the world of acting. Now she just settles for copying accents.
Here's something you probably didn't know about me; I used to want to be an actor. Not an actress, of course, (how unprofessional!) but an actor. A Shakespearian actor at that. So what went wrong? I discovered politics. Politics and I fell in love, and that was that. I gave up my dream, and made the (very sensible) decision to study International Relations.
However, I am left with certain things from my drama days. I love accents. I'm completely fascinated. I was trained to copy accents like a parrot. Being lucky, I've travelled a lot, and wherever we went, I picked up the accent. We'd been in Canada for two days when my mother lost her temper with me for 'speaking Canadian'. I couldn't hear it, but I'd slipped into the accent within hours. It was the same when we visited Australia for three weeks, except that this time it stuck. To this day, when people meet me for the first time they often ask if I'm Australian. Clearly, all those elocution lessons I had from the age of 5 didn't work. My mother didn't mind, so long as I didn't pick up my native Plymouthian accent, which she hated with a passion.
When I applied for university, I looked to Scotland first because I love an Edinburgh accent. Or most other Scottish accents when it comes to it. Just think; David Tennant. Ewan McGregor. Incredibly sexy accents. But, Scotland is a long way from home, and Wales had the better courses. So Swansea it was. Everyone said to me "Swansea? Ah, that's barely Wales, you'll never hear a Welsh accent there." How completely wrong they were. I hear so many different accents here every day. What I didn't realise before I got here is how unbelievably attractive the Welsh accent can be. Not all of them, but give me a good Pembrokeshire or a devastating Valleys accent and seriously, I'm yours. Kelly Jones, Huw Edwards, Iolo Williams; all vocal pin ups for me.
And yet I still can't pick the accent up. Not properly, and not for the want of trying. Andrew, our editor, has an awesome accent (and he knows it). I'm still trying to 'catch' his off him in the hope that one happy day, people will stop asking if I'm Australian and accuse me of being Welsh.
Charlie got distracted by her breasts...
- 23 Oct 2006 08:59
With the super smell broken with a cold, Charlie got distracted by her breasts. Yours as well for that matter.
All this writing about breasts has got me obsessed. Like I wasn't before. The breast cancer campaigning got me thinking about how I feel about my breasts. Not hugely body-confident, I've always got on quite well with them. They're the one thing I've never been embarrassed about. I'm lucky, because I'm genetically programmed to have huge knockers.
You'd be forgiven for thinking some of the women in my family were the result of a freaky threesome with a pair of watermelons. Christmas is the worst - despite the best minimiser bras money can buy, my Nan and her sister get stuck sideways in the doorway by the sheer volume of their combined chests. Anyone who thinks you can't have too much rack is lying, and hasn't met my mother.
Yet I have been blessed with a generous handful. I am a massive fan of anything low-cut, balconette bras, and square necklines. The phrase "is this top too low in the front?" has never passed my lips, my mantra is if you can't see my nipples, then it's fine.
More important than the actual size of your breasts, is how you wear them. I'm talking cleavage. Any woman that pushes her breasts together so there is a permanent line doesn't deserve boobs. There's supposed to be a gap! Gasp! Where else are you going to keep your emergency taxi money / lipstick / MP3 player / glasses / boyfriend? No, the best cleavage is taut, subtle, deep and therefore, meaningful. Not in your face (or anyone else's, unless they've asked for it nicely) but well controlled.
Despite my affection for cleavage and low cut tops, I rarely find men talking solely to my breasts. Either I've met a lot of polite men, or I don't notice very often. Either way I don't think I mind. I have chosen the way I dress and clearly, if you can see it, then you can look at it. Reading about women who had to have mastectomies because of cancer, I realised that in their position, I would be completely devastated. And yet they speak with remarkable bravery, which gives me hope that even I, the breast obsessed, could survive, if it came to it. Just don't expect me to put them away anytime soon.
Charlie Duff
