What is it about other people blogging that makes one want to blog, too? Just a reminder of duty? Or something? Well, that isn't important; a possibly detailed (depending on how much I remember) account of a meeting I went to is.

Why?

Oh, I don't know. Why does anyone blog? What is the purpose of blogging? Why is blogging or anything we blog important?

Anyhow.

On Thursday, there was a School Students Against War meeting, which I attended along with Amber (Segal. Of the long hair.) (Why did she come? I don't really know. Did she seem to enjoy herself? She did.). Despite the constant, and almost mysterious emails the organization has sent me (how did I end up on their list?), this was the first of their meetings I had bothered to drag myself to.

The topic? Troops Out Of Iraq, Troops Out Of Our Schools. I won't go into what the speakers said, but they were against war. Which was amay-zing.

The debate was good after the speakers had finished, even though there were plenty of non-school-students there, and was made better by the fact there was in fact a guy from the recruiting arm of the army who had gone into schools and universities to persuade innocent kids to kill people.

I spoke once, and was applauded loudly half way through, and heat-warningly with laughter at the end. Afterwards, a girl hugged me and said I was amazing, which was, incidentally, an aim of mine. Not for that night, but for life: to be hugged and called amazing because of something I said in a meeting. )(Yes, I'm boasting. Sorry. Can't help it. Besides, isn't that what a blog is for? One of the purposes, anyway?)

Then there was the mandatory mass congregation to the nearest pub, where there was alcohol! And drugs (nicotine so counts)! And semi-nudity (kind-of)! (How sad is it that the wildest thing I've ever been to was a political meeting?) The discussion, oddly enough, wasn't very political. It was much too teenage for that. But it was fun, and we swapped email addresses and all that. How like a stereotype I felt. It was fun. I should fit into categories more often!

I am feeling quite mysteriously happy, and that’s always a good reason to get one’s act together and, for fuck’s sake, blog.

The weekend was spent at Brighton, being annoyed by Joel (an annoying year eight kid who has an annoyingly obvious crush on me) and his brother Rudy (an eight year old (or something) who makes me play singstar, on which I can beat him, even though he can sing, and I can’t. But only if we sing Nirvana.) and their parents, Mark and Sally(the former of whom can cook, and the latter of whom has been kicked out of the SWP (like it looks like Cathy is going to be)). Their house is amazingly cold: you have to put a jacket on as you enter, and take it off as you leave. Needless to say, I forgot my jacket.

There was a point to the trip, however. Two friends of our who work at Bookmarks (The Socialist Bookshop: Liberate Your Mind!) have made a playthingy that was in the fringe festival. It wasn’t too bad, although it was rather plot-less.

Oh, and we got to see, from afar, the Udderbelly. Is it me, or is that font scarily familiar?

And, now my good mood has been Closely.
almost killed, I shall go and freeze orange juice (You know, in those super-cool ice-lolly making kit thingies?).

Goodbye.

Hallo,

I really should write something about Rome, I suppose.

So, apart from gelato, which, by the way, rocks so much I can almost write “rawks”, but not quite, because “ranks” has always terrified me, and I would, for some reason, feel quite pretentious writing it, what can I write about?

Not ruins. That would be repetitious. “And then, I saw another heap of bricks. And then, I saw another heap of bricks, except this one was the size of a small town!” Needless to say, I saw a lot of heaps of bricks. Now, it may sound spoilt and/or uncultured to say I was bored by this, but one ruin is much like another, and with not even an audio guide to explain why they were special, they did not, quite honestly, seem to be. Age does not always mean beauty. Besides, I’m spoilt and/or uncultured.

The Vatican had lots of gold.

The best thing we visited was the Protestant Cemetery, where there were cats, and graves of Gramsci, Shelly, and Keats. I found a nice spot, and read Brave New World.

Which is a good book. So’s Breakfast of Champions. Read them.

Never mind Rome. I’ll blab for a while, huh?

(I really like brackets. I think it's because they can be used so many times within each other, and it reminds me of Russian dolls. (Russian dolls are fun (I used to have two sets. Now there's one, made up of what's left pf the two (I wonder what the whole pregnancy thing symbolises with Russian Dolls? Being destined to be pregnant, as the only role as a female? (Which, of course, means that infertile women feel worthless? (Although we say women have other roles today, we don't, really, do we? Or we do, but they're nothing compared to our main one.)))))(I used to love semi-colons. I still do, but less.)(You know who uses brackets well? Roddy Doyle. He has whole paragraphs bracketed! (I should read more Roddy Doyle.))(I also like brackets because they let you ramble on, and then get back to what you were saying before. You can branch off in all different directions. (Also, no-one can read them, and you can bury secret messages! Like: Hi! Or: I should read more Roddy Doyle)))

The SATs are over, which I am glad about. Not nearly as glad as Emily, and Yasmine, and all the poor souls who did the lethal things, instead of giving in a note and getting to sit in the library. They are glad because, I assume, this is the end of revision and revision classes and worrying. I am glad, mainly, because it is the end of SATs practise and SATs preparation and SATs talk. Soon, I tell myself, we will actually get to learn things again! Kind of! More than pre-SATs! Although possibly less than under a completely different education system! Woo!

Sophia was over yesterday. And she moaned at me for not blogging, which is why I’m here now. Hi, Sophia!!!!! Look! I’m blogging! (Wow… Last year I swore I’d never blog. Ah well. Ther were no witnesses.)

That’s enough type, right?