*

How strange that I have met you here – such luck was never known,

That you should be just standing there; that I should be alone,

And now you’re here, I might suggest that it would do no harm,

If we should stay and talk awhile in rare, arresting calm.

How fortunate this happy chance that brought me to your door,

A thought that’s struck me every time I’ve wound up here before,

It’s always ‘I was passing by’ or ‘Just dropped by to ask’,

A constant quest for pretexts; it’s a ceaseless, vexing task.

How odd that though I hate it, I seek you for your tea,

You’re never as suspicious as you really ought to be,

The many times we fall in step continues to amaze,

The thousand times I meet you, in accidental ways.

______________________________

Something fairly failish that I wrote a couple of weeks ago, prompted by the number of 'chance' meetings I was having with somebody. Luckily, I don't need to make up excuses any more.

Best I could do in a haze of work and tiredness - I believe I was studying Alexander Pope's 'The Dunciad' at the time and his couplets seem to have seeped into my brain, though mine aren't heroic. I was experimenting with metre because it's much more amusing than working. It's Wordsworth, Blake and Coleridge Week this time around, but I doubt they're going to inspire me to write anything - I shall be too busy sleeping in my free time!

Ode To Pritt Stick

I had a horrendous class in the scansion of French poetry this afternoon, so I'm blitzing it from my mind with some of my own drivel, which I hope may also mildly amuse my one and only known reader. This is my very own Ode To Pritt Stick. Considering I composed the main part of it while in the shower, it's... wait, no, it's terrible.

You're rarely around when I need you,
I'm sure that you do it for fun,
If only I knew how to breed you,
'Cause whenever I seek you you're gone.

I'm forced into PVA nightmares,
I'm forced into Sellotape hell,
I'm sure that you're actually right there,
But just where you are you won't tell.

Is this 'cause I once left you uncapped, dear?
Left you sitting alone and near dry?
I know I deserve to be slapped, dear.
When I think of it now I could cry.

I hope that these words are cohesive,
That you know my apology's true,
You're my one and my only adhesive,
Be my number one partner in glue.
______________________________

I am the next Wordsworth...

Elegy For My Hypothetical Death

One had the impression
That she thought she was headed somewhere
Knew roughly the route
To take, to further hasten her pursuit,
But somewhere had forgotten
Quite where to alight,
Or deliberately shut her eyes,
Or made just one too many a digression.
In any case, she never did arrive.

It’s probably for the best.
Mercifully no one ever tapped her shoulder
And said, “Excuse me, but I think I’ve rather guessed
You’re on this track by accident,
Pretending that you know
Where it goes?”
Her intentions, I hope you are aware
Could not be faulted.
And yet the will behind them wasn’t there.
One cannot really fail a quest to nowhere.

_____________________________

Apologies for the extreme morbidity of this. I was reading 'How To Read A Poem' by Terry Eagleton yesterday afternoon, and he mentioned that W.B. Yeats wrote his own epitaph. Then I remembered Thomas Hardy's poem 'Afterwards', musing on how he might be remembered after death. And then I thought, 'Hey, I'll write an elegy for myself as though I were dead..." Cheery, I know. I didn't really focus on the death angle; I was thinking about how if I were to die now, it would be quite irritating as nearly everything worthwhile that I've done so far in my life has felt like a step towards some greater goal which, as you may have gathered, I haven't quite worked out the nature of yet. Needless to say, I'm not planning on dying any time soon, so it's all good!

Self-labelling: A Hobby

I watched an episode of The X Factor once (at the time I didn’t generally make a habit of this; since then things have rather taken a turn for the worse), where an auditionee walked into the room, ripped off the sticky label with her audition number on, and irately declared, ‘First of all, let’s sort this out. I am not a number, I am a human being.” 

People often seem to have a problem with labels. In the case of the aggressive X Factor contestant, it irritated her to be an identity-less one of many. That’s understandable, I suppose, though she could have been rather less bad-tempered about it. I found myself in much the same frame of mind during UCAS applications, when I imagined that it must be very easy for universities to reject applicant 105-220-0994, as opposed to an actual person with feelings on the matter.

When the label actually describes an aspect of the person in question, it’s even more of a touchy subject. It’s the reluctance to be defined as one thing, or to be viewed in a certain way. They’re restricting. I call someone wearing a tracksuit a chav and you assume they have a bad attitude, hang around on street corners and play rubbish music at full volume on buses. Whereas I’m sure there are some very nice chavs out there. Probably. So you hear people say things like, ‘I’m not a label, I’m me.”

The problem I have is that as a label, ‘me’ is not a very helpful one. It’s tautological: if I ask, “Who are you?” and you reply, “I am me,” I have gained precisely zero information on you apart from the fact that you’re probably one of those non-conformist types that refuses to be put into a mental box. It’s even less helpful when I ask myself, “Who are you?” and that is the answer I return.

For that reason, I love labels. Only self-applied labels, you understand, or those given to me by friends. For example, I’m happy to be called a nerd by people I like, but back in secondary school, it tended to mean ‘loser’ as opposed to ‘interested in things not generally considered cool’. I suppose the danger is when you only see the labels and not the person they're trying to unravel.

The thing is, ‘I am me’ is for people who understand exactly who they are and feel no need to explain themselves. And, as yours truly is your typical, always-trying–to-find-myself adolescent, in a permanent identity crisis, I’m still tirelessly striving to define what this ‘me’ is. I want to break it into chunks, however artificial they are, and fit myself into little boxes until there’s nothing unfathomable left.

I’m addicted to those psychological personality tests you can take on the internet that will give you a category that you belong to. I can tell you, for instance, that according to the Myers-Briggs Personality Types, out of sixteen personality types I am an INFP – Introversion, iNtuition over sensing when taking in information, Feeling over thinking when making decisions, and Perception over judgment when interacting with the external world. Meaning I prefer small groups of people to large ones, think abstractly as opposed to concretely, value personal considerations more than objective criteria and tend to withhold judgement and delay important decisions. I read the entry for INFPs on Wikipedia (source of all knowledge; don't you dare say it’s unreliable!) and was fascinated by how accurate the description was. It took this weird, complex thing that is myself and put it neatly into a nice, straightforward compartment that seemed to encompass a sizeable proportion of my odd self. Marvellous!

Of course, as a label it's not a perfect or definitive indicator of personality by any means. But it's better than the obscure and perplexing 'me'. And so I shall continue to nurture my little collection of pet labels - one of them is 'hoarder', so it's unsurprising really - and perhaps one day I will feel that I have discovered enough about myself to set them free, and just be me.

'Nobody Even Guessed': A Poegle

Whatever the case, nobody even guessed that she could be dead. I was introduced as her niece, Allisa – I was anything but the young lady I presented. Her bloated, lifeless body was discovered six months ago.

Another ‘mass suicide’; thirty-nine dead bodies discovered by police in an antiseptic community. Two months in the compartments poisoned with mercury vapours. Obscure scenes. A town shocked.

He came over for dinner. He was definitely not stupid; spoke German without a trace of an accent. But I was an expert at masking it – nobody ever found out it was a real knife.

Still unsolved. And nobody even guessed.

______________________________

This is me having a go at a poegle, a concept introduced to me by the lovey Terradoll. I used the phrase 'nobody even guessed', and was rather surprised when I ended up taking on the persona of a homicidal maniac... Interesting.

Things that terrify: A rundown

I discovered something quite strange while on holiday at the Devon Cliffs Haven this week. I have a semi-phobia of amusement arcades. It's not as though I can't set foot in them without having a full-on panic attack or anything like that. They just make me feel quite nervous. Every time we had to walk through the arcade at Haven to get to the entertainment club, I had a sensation of unease. I think it's the jarring, discordant music of all of the machines, each attempting to entice you in with their creepy, overly cheerful tune. Then there's the garish flashing lights everywhere and the sudden, urgent ringing bells. Nope, arcades are not for me.

Having unearthed this hitherto unknown facet of my personality, I began contemplating my various other fears, and came to the conclusion that I am more mentally unstable than even I previously suspected. And so, on this dull Sunday evening, I bring you Lemonie's Top Five Phobias.


1. Enochlophobia (fear of crowds)
I hate being surrounded by lots of people. Not all the time - sometimes I'm fine - but if I'm in a club and there are too many people around me, I can't stand it, especially when they're touching me. I have been know to indulge in some irate elbowing of those who choose to dance enthusiastically right next to me, thus seriously invading my space. Mosh pits sound truly hellish.

2. Emetophobia (fear of vomit) 
Apparently this is pretty common, but I spoke to a friend about it the other day and she thought it was a bit odd. I can't watch people being sick on screen, even in films where I know it isn't real. Ugh. If a film has someone throwing up in it, even if the rest of the film is brilliant, I usually won't watch it again. Why oh why did I go to see The Hangover? I have no idea what I'll do if I ever have children.

3. Trypophobia (fear of clusters of holes)
Yeah, this is weird. I don't like things with lots of little holes in. Honeycombs, termite-eaten wood, pitted surfaces - they make my skin crawl. Even clusters of round things that aren't holes, like eggs, make me feel itchy all over.

The honeycomb picture isn't so bad, but I couldn't bring myself to post any of the ones that truly freak me out. Google 'trypophobia' and there's an image of a frog with eggs on its back. I can't look at that one!


4. Scoleciphobia (fear of worms and/or maggots)
Thinking about it, my hole phobia may be linked to this - maggots emerging from holes would be my worst nightmare; I'm shuddering at the thought. I've had a few dreams about having to walk over ground covered in lots of tiny worms. I think this fear was heightened after my school Head of Year's assembly on fishing. He picked up a box which he led us to believe contained maggots, and threw them into the audience. They were supposed to scatter across the first few rows, but in fact landed entirely on me. I jumped up from my seat, cried, 'Get them off me!' and then realised the 'maggots' were actually bits of string. Cue looking very stupid in front of my entire year.

5. Opidiophobia (fear of snakes)
Similar to the maggots, I suppose, but it's mostly the way they move that creeps me out. I made the mistake of watching 'Anaconda' when I was about 12 - horrendous film. Snakes are just horrible, enough said.

I want to include on the list a strong aversion to the noise things in the freezer make when they grate against each other, but I thought that was a little too odd. It's not even the noise, more like the sensation you can feel that goes right through your teeth and bones. It's my equivalent of the dislike people have of fingers scratching on a blackboard. Unfortunately this particular pet hate has no name, mainly because nobody else shares it!

Limbo: I want it to end

It's been a while, and I feel the need to lay down the thoughts that are tormenting me. I'm an excessive worrier and writing is my sedative.

It's the not-knowing that eats away at your mind. I've never been at all organised, but I do like to be able to imagine exactly how things will turn out. As it is, I don't dare to begin the process of carefully crafting the mental picture of my life in four month's time.

Exams are almost over. Just three days stand between me and a summer free from the soul-destroying opression of revision - I'm not being overdramatic in stating that this is how I feel about revision (but perhaps a little in having those feelings). Strange how the prospect of a drawn-out period of free time is frightening. The two months between now and results day is a lot of time to torture myself with relentlessly replaying in my head precisely what I wrote in each exam, what percentages I need for every possible grade, the best and worst outcomes and what I will do after that.

There are many different ways things might turn out, and I don't like to visualise any of them. I can't daydream about the two As and an A* that would take me to Cambridge, because I don't think I could bear the disappointment of having my dream (for want of a less clichéd word) dissolve. I understand that the system of conditional university places is necessary, but I truly resent having my future dangled mockingly in front of me. Likewise, I don't want to get my hopes up by imagining the three As that would allow me the still desirable place at Durham. A third outcome is having to obtain a place through Clearing, and the uncertainty of where I could end up terrifies me. The final option is taking a year out to resit and reapply, and the horrendous idea of going through UCAS once more, staying at home for another twelve months while my friends go off to university, and worst of all doing A Levels all over again, is a nightmare scenario that I can't bring myself to entertain.

If I knew, right now, that all was lost and my worst fears were realised and UCAS was one big, hellish waste of time, would I prefer it to this state of limbo? Probably not, because at least for the moment there is the possibility of self-reassurance, even if it turns out to be delusion. And yet, there's a part of me that prefers the idea of throwing myself wholeheartedly into a pit of despair than teetering agonisingly on the brink of feeling anything. At present I despise the entire institution of examinations. There are so many things I detest about it...

I hate the way I'm only worth whatever I can prove I know in a test. I hate the way everything can be snatched away if I don't live up to expectations. I hate the way the only comfort anyone can give is 'I know you'll be fine' when they don't know that at all, and I hate the way the same lie issues from my mouth to others. I hate the way one mark might be the difference between the path I desperately want to go down and that path being erased for me forever. I hate the way I want something so much but don't work enough for it because of my inherent defence mechanism when faced with pressure: to hide and pretend the day will never come, creating a bubble of false happiness based on the myth that ignorance is bliss.

On the outside I look quite calm, and I say things like 'Ah well, just have to wait and see how things turn out!' as though that's fine by me and I can deal with anything results day might hand me. Inside I'm going to be plagued by biting anxiety until Thursday 19th August, and there's really nothing anybody can do about it.

Poetry (the sort written under a veil of fatigue)

A Drifting Day

I drifted through today
It seemed like I was here but
Perhaps you imagined me?
I was smoke, not substance.
Holographic.

You thought you heard me but
I was a barely audible sigh
The concerto played around me.
I was a tentative note
Lost in the cacophony.

I was conscious but I was unconscious
I was present but I was absent
I was but I did not.
Every action was a weary exhalation
Where I was you could not be
A solitary planet.

You saw my face as I wafted past
My head was that of a dandelion
Quivering seed parachutes poised
To fly away. Anywhere.
To meander where I mused.
To drift.

______________________________

Just something I began writing in my head as I cycled home from college today. I didn't get enough sleep last night so I spent the day in a haze of tiredness, hence the sensation of drifting. Hmm... it sounded better in my head. Ah well.

Fictional characters: I keep trying to tell myself they are not real

I've been watching the BBC drama 'Five Days' this week. An hour-long episode was shown each evening, tracking five days (hence the name) in the course of a police investigation. It was all rather tense and dramatic, and I found myself getting particularly into it. I only started watching because the wireless router in my house has decided to stop working wirelessly, so I have to sit in my lounge to use the internet. I looked up from my laptop and morbid fascination sucked me in - a camera shot of blood running down the window of a train was at once both repulsive and compelling. Was the person who fell from the bridge into the path of the train pushed, or was it suicide? How was the abandonned baby linked to the case?

I finished watching the last episode on iPlayer this evening. I won't reveal what happened, but the ending left me sitting with my mouth open for several minutes. It was pretty intense.

However, as always when a series finishes, I feel a certain amount of sadness. Perhaps I become too involved in the lives of fictional characters, but having invested time in following these characters on screen, it saddens me that I can no longer see them. It's almost like losing friends. In my mind, I picture them standing there saying, "Hello? We're still here. Have you forgotten us? The programme might have ended but our lives carry on. Don't you want to know what happened next?"

Yes, I do want to know what happened next. I have so many questions - more than I had after the first episode! Does Laurie find another man? Is she happy? And her mother; how long does she have before dementia takes hold completely? What about Nusrat and Danny - do they ever get to adopt a child? Does baby Michael live a good life reunited with his immigrant father?

Of course they're not real people. I know that. But isn't it entirely natural to become attached to characters on the screen? I took a liking to one character in particular - Laurie, the police officer who is a strong woman in a male-dominated world, but with a vulnerable side. I want to see more of her. I want to know more about her. I can't simply accept that there is no rest of her life because she doesn't exist. I suspended my disbelief when I began watching, as one must when watching or reading about made-up events, and now I find I cannot un-suspend it.

One need only look at the online world of fanfiction to see how widespread unhealthy attachment to fictional characters is. Dissatisfied with the fate of a character, people take matters into their own hands and rewrite the ending. It's about gaining access to that imaginary world again, when the official writer has deserted it or moved it in a direction that you are unhappy with. Some people take it one step too far and write fiction about real people, but that's another matter entirely.

I myself was thrown into the very strange phenomena that is fanfiction after the season finale of Doctor Who. I mourned the loss of Donna, the temp from Chiswick who travelled with the Doctor and then had to forget everything. Until, that is, I found the simple but effective method of dealing with her fate that many people on the internet had chosen: change it! We didn't have to stand for the eventualities that Russell T Davies had created; we could find a million other alternatives and comfort ourselves by writing them down to share with others. Fanfiction is the ultimate geeky pleasure, and I love it. However, I was forced to acknowledge that my obsession had gone a little too far when I did a word count on my longest and favourite work of fanfiction - a fix-it, concerned with the elaborate reversal of Donna's fate - and found that I'd written 17,500 words. If only I could get that inspired when writing coursework.

No, I won't be indulging in writing fanfiction detailing what might have happened to Laurie. But in my head she will live on, and as far as I'm concerned she gets her happy ending. I am perfectly aware that I sound like a nutcase, but I'm proud to say it: I am too emotionally attached to creations of fiction masquerading as real people. I believe it was Lynn Truss, in her book 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves', who quoted someone as saying that they always seemed to become addicted to things that there is no support group for (in their case, it was semicolons). This is true of me. I should set up a group called Fictional Character Obsessors Anonymous. We mental people who care about forgotten fictional characters will unite, once and for all! Who wants to join?

...Uh, just me then.

Makeup: Lemonie fails to boycott it

Last month, I ran out of foundation and couldn't afford any more. "Fine," I thought. "I won't buy any more. At all. It's not like I need it anyway. Why should I cover up my face to conform to the unrealistic ideals of beauty that society prescribes? To hell with makeup!" And so I resolved to give up foundation and live with my imperfections, as well as saving myself money.

Well, yesterday morning I woke up, looked in the mirror and thought 'Urgh... I look repulsive'. Most of the time when I despair over a spot, it's likely that nobody else even notices it, but trust me, this one wasn't about to go unnoticed by anyone. My mother asked me whether or not it was a cold sore and my brother laughed and said 'Have you got herpes?' No, it was not a cold sore or herpes, just a spot in a particularly annoying place on my face.

What did I do? Did I resolve to drink more water and eat more healthily to make my skin better? Did I remember my vow to accept my face in its natural state? Did I remind myself that spots are normal and nothing to be ashamed of?

Ha, of course I didn't. I went out earlier today and bought some more foundation.

In fact, I didn't even stop there. Whilst in Superdrug, I found myself being unexplicably drawn towards the little sticks of concealer. And I remembered that my mascara was really old and manky, so I got another one of those too. I left the shop £13.97 poorer (eek!) but in possession of some shiny new makeup to cover up my face and conform to the unrealistic ideals of beauty that society prescribes. So much for saving money.

Why do women feel the need to wear makeup? Did I walk out of Superdrug feeling happier? Inevitably not. Besides the fact that I'd just spent a ridiculous amount of money on beauty products, I was also faced with the depressing reality that I need manufactured chemical gunk on my face to make it look vaguely okay.

People always say things like, "Makeup just enhances your natural beauty", but to put it bluntly, it's bullshit. That perfect and even skin tone that somebody might admire isn't my perfect and even skin tone (supposing it was perfect and even, which it never is). It has come out of a container. And if my lashes look long, luxurious and full of volume like the adverts say they will, that's nothing to do with me. It's to be attributed to the costly mixture of water, wax thickeners, film-formers, and preservatives (thanks, Wikipedia) that came in the little black tube. Enhance? I don't think so. There's a product for hiding every inch of your so-called 'natural beauty', because that is makeup's purpose: to hide.

I'd like to know who decided that a flawless complexion and dark, sooty eyelashes made for the ideal woman. We could just as easily have decided that the variations in a natural skin tone made for a more interesting aesthetic viewing experience. We could have embraced the variety of hues that occur naturally in eyelashes, like we welcome different hair colours (except, for some reason, ginger, which I have never understood as I love red hair). Instead we are all brainwashed into thinking that the aforementioned traits are what we should strive for. Adverts assume without question that we want to look like that - why wouldn't they, as it earns the companies selling them billions of pounds - and it seems, after my spending spree, that I'm about as far from immunue to their persuasive effects as possible.

In my defence, I don't wear makeup to impress guys. I wear it because I think it makes me look better and because looking better makes me feel better. But it's so shallow. I certainly don't feel better when I think about how easily led I am, or how my self-image hinges on putting artificial crap on my face. But until society's idea of beauty changes, I will continue to spend stupid amounts of money on said artificial crap. And on chocolate, whose artificial happiness is probably what gave me the spots in the first place, but which I won't hear a word said against.

Journeys: why they're so much more appealing than destinations

I don’t understand it when people view journeys solely as a means to getting somewhere. I love journeys. The longer the journey, the better. Even when I’m going somewhere exciting, like a holiday destination, I find myself wishing that the flight would last forever.

Now, I imagine that my inherent laziness makes up a small part of this feeling. When in a particular frame of mind, the maxim ‘If it involves moving, the answer is no’ is generally one I’m tempted to follow. Sitting in a car marvelling at the wide spectrum of trees on offer and observing oddly-shaped clouds requires minimum effort and can be just as entertaining as any physical activity to someone easily amused.

It’s more than that though. Nothing is required of you on a journey. Nobody will ever say, ‘Why don’t you do something useful?’ You will never feel guilty for not doing something constructive. I tend to favour creating imaginary scenarios to occupy myself, or thinking over issues that I don’t normally give any thought to. This valuable time to be rather than to do usually only comes in the time before one falls asleep at night, and that time is clouded by somnolence (great word; I just found it - 'A state of drowziness; sleepiness'). Other times I use to think are regularly pierced by irritating interruptions, such as my cycle ride to and from college - any musings are punctuated by thoughts such as, 'Move out of my way, moron!' and 'Why does this gentle slope feel like a mountain?' On a journey where somebody else does the steering and navigating, however, there are generally fewer impediments to contemplation.

A further appeal of journeys is the element of potential. When the eventual destination has not yet been reached, reality does not have to impinge upon the imagined possibility of what awaits. In my experience, things rarely live up to what dwells in my imagination. I am predisposed to form ideal expectations of things, and am therefore frequently disappointed when the scenes in my head are not surpassed by what eventually comes to pass.

It is quite the same with other areas. I much prefer dreaming about something I'd like to do than actually getting up and doing it, and facing the prospect that the endeavor might fail. I buy notebooks because I like the idea that they could be filled with interesting things, and then they remain empty when I can't think of anything worthy of filling them (I just counted, and I have over ten blank notebooks...) I gain an infinitely greater amount of pleasure from thinking up questions than I do from getting answers. And people seem to become far less attractive in my eyes when the attraction is mutual, because then there is a possibility that a relationship might develop and it would never match my idealistic expectations. This is surely the reason why obsessing over celebrities is much more fun: it can only ever be a harmless fantasy which reality need never taint.

So this Wednesday, when I get in the car to go to Liverpool for a family mini-break, I will not be complaining about the two hour drive. Unlike my younger brother, who will most likely ask how long it will be until we get there every twenty minutes, I will be enjoying the opportunity to do nothing but allow my thoughts to wander with no interruptions. Except for the occasional sighting of an Eddie Stobart lorry. They have individual names on the front, you see, so obviously I have to look to see what is is. Then I'll get right back to the philosophical musings.

Smell: It is actually amazing

Christmas. After the manic, excitable unwrapping that you really should have grown out of at the age of six, you're left with a mound of shiny, new stuff. Then you have to fit all of this stuff into places amongst all of the other stuff you already own. For me, this inevitably means that I have to throw away a lot of the stuff that's been comfortably settled in my room for some time to make some space (including some of the stuff that I got last Christmas and never used...) As I was embarking on this arduous task last week, I discovered that I have amassed a small collection of almost-empty deodorants. Odd and slightly worrying, I know, but stay with me here. Anyway, I was mildly surprised to find that the scent of each was accompanied by a powerful sense of memory. One made me think instantly of a formation dance competition I took part in at Blackpool, and I don't think I'm being too poetic in saying that the scent evoked a vague feeling of excitement tinged with nerves. Another brought me right back to when I started college over a year ago and the feeling of optimism was indubitable. Ignoring the fact that I'm clearly insane for sitting sniffing deodorants, I was struck by how powerful and strange sense of smell is.

I frequently catch a scent that elicits a certain emotion; sometimes it's one I can't even pin down. It's a fleeting impression and then it's gone. For a split second, there's a link back to a moment in time. Sometimes I can identify the scent and sometimes I can't. I have been known to suddenly ask, "Can anyone smell a mixture of wax crayons and red liquorice?", or something along those lines. With some people, all I get is a perplexed stare that clearly means, "She's nuts, let's back away." Others completely understand what I'm talking about, and sometimes I even get a debate about whether or not it is in fact the scent of pink sherbert and not red liquorice that lingers in the air.

And smell preference is such a personal thing - I despise the smell of turpentine, the smell of cut grass and the smell of petrol, but I know people who love those smells. Equally, I love the smell of lemons but some can't stand it. I read a book once that had a character who was raised with no smell prejudice - she liked all smells, including those generally accepted as unpleasant. Is that possible, I wonder? Are those scents inherently displeasing or are we socially conditioned to think that? (The book, by the way, was 'Dr. Fell's Cabinet of Smells', by Susan Gates. I read a lot of her books when I was about eight; 'Killer Mushrooms Ate My Gran' was a particular favourite.)

Everybody's house has a smell. That's one thing which has always fascinated me. And the only people who don't know what that smell is are the inhabitants of that house. I would love to know what my house smells like, and I sometimes wonder whether or not I'll find out when I no longer live here. House smells are always indescribable but instantly recognisable, and almost everybody smells faintly of their own home.

There was an English teacher at my old school who was well known for being very, very scary. I usually find that most English teachers are lovely but this one, Mrs Daniels, had a ferocious temper and terrified everyone. I participated in a speaking competition once, and she decided to rewrite my speech that I'd spent hours composing, which made me unbelievably angry, but I was too intimidated by her to complain (another teacher confronted her for me, which earned her my unwavering admiration forever, I can tell you). I digress. The point is, Mrs Daniels always wore a very distinctive perfume. I sometimes encounter somebody else wearing the same perfume, and even after several years the scent still strikes a dim sense of fear into my heart.

According to some, smell is even more powerful than that. I found this article which claims that the smell of lemon cleaner can make you more generous. Who knew? Apparently, people link morality with cleanliness subconsciously, which means that when they smell the fresh, clean scent of lemon cleaner, they think of themselves as being more moral. Come on. That's interesting.

I leave you with a short anecdote. It involves another English teacher (completing a hat-trick of English teachers I've mentioned in this post) who asked my class to write a short descriptive piece on anything we wanted to write about. Some chose an idyllic location; others, an interesting posession. Me? I chose a speck of dust, and wrote four pages about it. When she marked my essay, she wrote at the bottom, 'Only you could make something so mundane sound so fascinating...' Fascinating, this post is not, but are you at all surprised that the girl who wrote four pages on dust can waffle about the subject of smell for 739 words?