In the immortal words of Will Smith

"The weather is hot and girls are dressing less." I'm not sold on the grammar of that, actually, but who am I to question the Fresh Prince?

I can't think straight, it's too hot! I've got a couple of posts drafted that are awaiting the time my brain decides to play ball again. The way this summer has been going (and going, and going), that may be some time!

Twitter seems to be full of people who can't sleep tonight. All complaining about being sticky and uncomfortable and restless. It's the first 'proper' summer we've had since, oh I don't know, 2006? How strange to think that my blog goes back that far! In fact, tomorrow is my FIVE YEAR blogaversary. Crazy. Every now and then I go through the archives and reread old posts. It's like catching up with a girl that I'm not any more. We exchange stories, me and 17-year-old me, and I try not to let her see that I'm laughing at her a little bit. I'm sure she's extending me the same courtesy.

As first posts go, it's not at all representative of myself at that age. It's entirely school-focused - and, well, Big Brother? Dear me. Now if you want to see a post that really does represent me, check this one out! Me, leaving my work till the last minute? Heaven forfend!

Me in 2004, aged 16. My semi-goth phase. Throttling the lovely Becky.

Anyway, I could waffle all night, since sleep is apparently not an option, but I'll spare you that. Instead, here's an awesome game called Doodle God, in which you have to combine four starting elements in new and interesting ways until you have created, among other things, milk, zombies, and assassins. As always, the link will be going on the left.

On the other hand

When I was learning to write, I had a neat little system for when my hand (unused to all the complicated lettering) got tired. I'd switch to the other one. My teachers didn't notice, but I was ambidextrous until I was eight. Eventually, my mother picked up on the fact that my writing was a lot neater at some times than at others. She watched me writing, and noticed this little trait; something that hadn't seemed strange to me, and had gone unnoticed by everyone else.

My writing with my left hand was scruffy, and my writing with my right hand was neat. So my mother claims, and I suppose I should take her word for it; although as I'm mostly left-handed now (I eventually got used to all the strenuous words and settled on one hand) that seems strange.

I say 'mostly': I write, draw, and paint with my left hand. Most other endeavours - stirring a cooking pot, holding a tennis racket, lifting shopping bags - I undertake with my right.

I mention this now, because I'm starting at square one again. My boyfriend gave me a cute little calligraphy set a few months ago, and after suddenly deciding that I'm interested in typography, I've finally picked it up. But, you know, being a lefty has its disadvantages, including smudged ink and the nib being slanted in entirely the wrong direction. Oddly, I decided that the easiest way to tackle this challenge is to be right-handed for this. So I'm learning to write right from the beginning. I'm mastering an unwilling pen and a stubborn hand, and forcing them to comply, just like I did in primary school. And you know what? It's actually really exciting!

A random memory

Occasionally, a memory completely unrelated to anything surfaces in my mind, and I realise that I never blogged about it.

Here's the thing. You know how in big cities, particularly where there are universities, it's not so unusual to see superman and a cowboy enjoying a pint in the evening? Well back on the Isle of Wight, that wasn't such a common occurrence. Which is why this event stood out so much at the time.

There was a man - probably a man, I couldn't tell. For the sake of argument, let's say 'man' - sat on a bus, upstairs, at the front, and wearing a chicken suit. He had a Sooty and a Sweep puppet on his hands, and was dancing to silent tunes with massive earphones on.

Like this but less aggy.

I was with a friend, (or possibly my sister, I don't remember now), and it made me braver than I would otherwise have been, so when the chicken man made Sweep talk to me - incomprehensible squeaks, for those who didn't have a childhood - I squeaked back. We had a brief and meaningful squeak conversation, and my day was made.