Photos from a BBQ

Photos from the Wedding

I got a job!

And I am super stoked about it :)

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
You used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous
because we’ve never met.

We got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. So you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD.

We know God is dead, they’ve told
us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. Maybe
it was the upper case. You were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “her, print her, she’s mad but she’s
magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of.

I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. Your letters got sadder.
Your lovers betrayed you. Kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. It didn’t help. You said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. A friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. If I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. It was best like this.


Eesh. Issues.
Unix can honestly blow me. Final day of interview. I feel sick.

My Past Week

I spent most of it with my nose in a 1000+ page UNIX textbook, in lieu of my interview on Monday, and when it was not nestled in that book it was wedged in ‘We Need to Talk about Kevin’, which is quite enjoyable, albeit far too focused around people’s feelings. My sister had her birthday. I hindered Jon and Darryl’s work progress. We discovered that letting the neighbour’s cat into our house has resulted in a flea infestation and a £200 ‘Rentokill’ exterminators bill. Unpleasant. My Mother bought me a new purse. Very pleasant. I ate curry and Nandos and made a trip to a sushi restaurant with my Mum and will obviously not fit into my ridiculously tight-fitting dress for the wedding tomorrow. I hope I’m not the only person dressed all in black.

I’m itching to get a job. I did some more programming for my Dad’s office and that tiny bit of VBA has got me hooked again. I always forget how wonderful it is to make something. I’m not creative, I know I’m not. I like reading other people’s stories; watching films others have directed; buying clothes somebody else has designed. But this is my contribution and something that they would perhaps struggle to achieve – creative or not. I can automate tasks, make results more accurate and save people time, so they can maybe go home from work a little earlier and buy some new shoes on Net-a-Porter.com or go to a showing of ‘Moon’ at their local Odeon.

(That is until the code cocks up and everyone’s sorry arse is hauled into the office on a Saturday (including my own) to fix the mistakes and bitch out at me, haha)

I want to be a ‘do-er’ and make something, but all I did at university was theorise and write simple algorithms and all I do lately is shop.

Actually, speaking of my sister’s birthday I’m kind of irritated by it. My Mum and I bought her a pair of Tiffany earrings, which she didn’t seem to taken by, yet the level of appreciation she showed to her boyfriend, who bought her nothing (but who purchased a pair of trainers for himself, no less), was quite sickening.

I have a pile of books I want to re-read, but can’t seem to get round to:
The Return of the Native
Franny & Zooey
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Great Expectations
Bonjour Tristesse

I was sad, so...

Jonathan is buying a new Tottenham t-shirt. It looks pretty much identical to last season's. At least it will match my purse, that he will undoubtedly end up carrying anyway :)

Bristol wedding tomorrow. Chanel bag is getting a long-awaited airing.

Gareth: If you’re so clever, what am I thinking now?

Tim: You’re thinking, ‘how can I kill a tiger armed only with a biro?’

Gareth: No.

Tim: You’re thinking, ‘if I crash land in a jungle will I be able to eat my own shoes?’

Gareth: No. And you can’t.

Tim: What were you thinking, Gareth?

Gareth: I was just wondering whether will there ever be a boy born who can swim faster than a shark?

Franny & Zooey

The little girl on the plane

Who turned her doll’s head around

To look at me.

Jon sat opposite a man on the train who was carving roses out of carrots.

080709 - I think Peter Lorre is wonderful

070709 - Must find and re-watch "Ghost World"

Portugal

FIRST OF ALL: blogspot is a bit sucky. http://aznemma.tumblr.com/

I went to Portugal. Now I need a job. Hire me; I’ll do anything :)

Final round interviews coming up. No more holidays until South Africa at Christmas. I didn’t go near the Harrods sale, nor did I go to the Hermes sample sale - well done, me.

My boyfriend and one of my best friends have made a company..I’m proud.

Kiraku for lunch with mum and jon, thursday; coffee with Sig on friday.

Round-up: done! XD