A short story by my much younger self

The Tunnel

Once upon a time, in a magical village, there was a long tunnel. There were lots of families and two of the children were very famous. There was a little scaredy boy, and a tall brave girl. Everybody was taking the mick out of the boy. So he went into the tunnel. It was really dark in there, and whoever went in never came out.

 There are also lots of doors in there. And they each lead to something. One of them leads back to the village again. When the little boy opened the first door, he found a beautiful garden. And he played and played in it. But then he found a bomb! So he ran out of the garden as quickly as possible. Then, he found a unicorn in the tunnel, and it helped him find the door that led out of the tunnel. But the unicorn was quite slow.

Meanwhile, back in the village, everybody was getting worried about the little boy. So, the tall girl went into the tunnel to find him. She searched and searched - after a couple of hours she found him. And they both went looking for the door back to the village. The unicorn had forgotten which door it was. It took four days to find the right one. When he came out, everybody was really happy. They have the unicorn a rosette, and the boy and girl a medal each.

The End.

I found this when I was searching through some old school reports at the weekend. Rereading this alongside my reports was odd. They both present a version of myself which is acutely similar to the person I am now, yet seem to tell a different story to the one I remember, or at least perceived to have occurred. I wasn't an unhappy child, and certainly I had (and still do) a lovely home life. But I never had stable friendship groups during primary school - I always, as many of us do, felt like a constant outsider and never felt particularly (eurgh, to quote Willy Loman) well-liked. So it was weird to read that I was apparently a 'popular' child.

 Then there is all the psychoanalysis you can do on this story. On Sunday, the story struck me as a metaphor for depression. Typing it now, in some ways writing it alongside my former self, it still has that tone, I began to notice other things. Firstly, that the presentation of the girl as the savior means it's quite clearly feminist (woooo!). Secondly, that it centres on a sibling relationship. As much as I hate to admit it, my relationship with my older brother has been one of the biggest influences on me. Namely, it's made me into the slightly too competitive young woman that is writing this post. I wasn't imaginative enough as a child to not be writing this about me and him, and in that context it's interesting that our relationship to each other is completely reversed: I'm older and taller, and I'm the one who is brave and saves the day. Then depressingly at the end, it is not the actions of saving her brother that makes the story worth telling, but rather being given medals. It's this desire for award that I need to get out of my system, and this again ties into my competitiveness. But I am getting much better.

Gwendolen

Book Review: 'A Dead Man in Deptford' by Anthony Burgess

Hey Readers!

 I guess I am now on my summer holidays. But I won't do my end of year post just yet due to the way school ended: it kind of dissolved into nothing. Technically the last day of school is tomorrow, so I shall do that post at the weekend. For now, I shall do a quick book review (my laptop has 17% battery).

Source

 As none of my friends (or indeed anyone who has mentioned anything to do with books near me) have been able to escape my gushing speeches of love for Burgess, it doesn't seem right that you, my Fair or Foul Readers (but where's the difference?), should either. However I must admit I have only read two of his books - A Clockwork Orange and A Dead Man in Deptford - but I shall be doing a Burgess Binge (dat alliteration) this summer. And when he titles his books like "Mozart and the Wolf Gang" or "1985" (which is a tribute to Orwell's 1984) I feel I can be pretty sure the rest of his writing shall live up to wonders I have already read.

 A Dead Man in Deptford is an re-imagining of Christopher Marlowe's life. Marlowe was a playwright who grew up in Canterbury and studied at Chorpus Christi College, Cambridge before becoming a playwright, who many critics feel would have outshone Shakespeare, had he not died in a pub brawl with a dagger to eye (don't cha just hate it when that happens???). The image of the eye recurs throughout the book and often sparks musings on solipsism. However Burgess' real point of interest in regards to Marlowe is the more dubious aspects to his life: his addiction to sex and potentially working as a spy for Queen Elizabeth I. 

 Although the book is about Marlowe, it is told through the eyes of an unnamed narrator who didn't witness many of the events in the book. The way Marlowe drifts in and out of his life is sometimes unclear, but I quite like the tone of confused memory this gives the book. The narrator is one of the most interesting aspects of the book, and I feel it places the role of the author as one of the central questions of the book (Barthes would not be happy), especially in terms of how historical fiction influences our understanding of past events. And then there is the last paragraph, but I don't want to give away the ending because you are all going to go and read this book.

 As always the Burgess, his use of language is simply divine. He writes in a way that forces the words off of the page and into your imagination. You have to sit up and take notice. The opening paragraph is more opaque than the majority of the book, so don't be put off. Instead, spend some time just admiring how he mingles poetic techniques with prose. Burgess also presents speech in a different style to that which we may be used to: speech always begins on a new line, is indicated by a '–' and it is not clear when the speaker finishes. This was alienating at first, but in true Burgess style, this alienation makes you part of the book's world, by clearly differentiating it from our own.

 In short, this is a truly fabulous book by a truly fabulous writer. Probably not that great if you're a raging homophobic as a lot of the sex takes place between Marlowe and other men (sometimes in Latin which led to a fun hour of translation). However you do have to pay attention when you read it, there are a lot of characters and the relationships between them are not entirely clear if you zone out for a moment. But if you are zoned in, as you should be you diligent reader you, then I promise you will have a most pleasurable reading experience when reading this book. 

Rating: *****

Gwendolen

An email to Cecily

My slightly edited email to Cecily. NB She is having a Latino National Evening the Sunday that I leave after my visit to her (GAHHHH)

Damn. I do like my Latinos. Gutted to be missing this event.

But at least I get to spend a weekend with my favorite Latino of them all.

And no, I don't mean you.

Eek. I am becoming a fan of short syntaxes standing as isolated paragraphs. I think it's a pretty good representation of how I'm thinking at the moment. I'm so fricking tired. Everybody is; in one music lesson, the teacher said to her class ten minutes in "You can't be bothered to do this lesson, I can't be bothered to teach. Just go and relax. You guys can have a free, and I can have one too". The last two days at school, I have attempted to do work, but always have just seem to find myself sitting on a chair in the common room attempting to sleep. It's like I've been on the verge of tears all week. Not because I'm finding in particularly hard or stressful, but (why can't the English language have a word like 'sondern') rather I'm just so exhausted. Yesterday I felt so down in away I haven't felt before since coming to my new school (but I realised with horror how much I remember feeling it at our old school) and lots of people commented on it. But I bought myself some chocolate buttons and discussed feminism and sex (in an unsexual way) with J-- for half an hour. And then G-- and his girlfriend joined us and discussed how fun sex is. Which was a bit awkward. Because. Well. It's G-- and his girlfriend, and although we are all exposed to their semi dry-humping in the common room everyday, the thought of them actually being naked with their gentiles stuck together is just not that appealing. And going back to the tears thing, there's some other stuff (shitty teenage crushes*) that I've been thinking about too much.

I just want to come to Wales and see you. I am very very very much missing you. R-- I have really been drifting apart lately and so it can sometime feel like my only really good friend at school is F--. Sure, I have loads of friends and people that I get on really well with, and I never technically need to be alone in a free (if I wish it to be so). I guess I just miss having a good few people that I can have a range of conversations with. For each person, I only seem to be able to have one kind of conversation; for some it's deeply intellectual, for others the standard banter. I miss being able to have someone where I can have a whole range of conversations with. I do have that with F--, but as we were both saying, it's nice when you have that history with person, which neither of us (although I at least should) have what with being at new school.

 We've got our exam timetables, and a planner for the rest of the year, which is about the same size of a timetable, that has one decent sized box for everyday between now and the beginning of the summer holidays, and it fits on one size of A4. It's made me realise how close we are to leaving school. I really don't want to. I really love education. And. Oh shit. I don't want to be ready to leave school. I think that's the scariest thought. For my entire life school has been this safety blanket, a place which I know I will enjoy and excel at. But over the next year, school will cease to be the lovely warm duvet just after you have woken up, but rather the duvet you have after you have lain in until after midday, and it's hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. I don't want to experience that.

A hail storm has broken out with the odd bit of thunder and lightening. Talk about over dramatized pathetic fallacy.   

Sorry for the length/angstyness of this email.

I don't know why I apologised because I know it's the type of thing you love.

xxx

*Whose only remedy is Girls' Aloud

My Non-Awkward Adolescence

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Hey Readers!

 There have been many points where I have looked back on my previous three and a half years of being a teenager, and kind of feel like I have wasted these years. I mean in reality, I pretty terrible teenager.

 Adolescence is supposed to be awkward; mine just isn’t. Yes, I admit that I am a very awkward person, with a few amusing stories, such as the arm wobbling on a train, the rest I am not brave enough to put on the internet. But I mean in reality, that’s about four stories, all of which have happened in the last seven months. Other than that, I have never had a boyfriend, never got drunk, only ever had one argument with my parents (which wasn’t even over a proper teenage issue) and haven’t even ever had a detention. It’s a year and half until I turn eighteen, and I’ve never had to go to a frickin’ detention (and out of pride I don’t plan to).

 As I sat out in my garden today enjoying the sun I mulled over this thought and I have come to three conclusions, which I shall discuss in this post.

 

Because we will all have a nice collection of Polaroids [Source]

Firstly, are we supposed to find it awkward when we’re going through it? Does every teenage have this guilt when they realise they haven’t done the ‘teenage bucket list’ and suddenly you begin to question what on earth you have been doing with your time. Does the supposed awkwardness only become apparent when you sit there reminiscing with old friends about what you did, and then awkwardness becomes apparent? Only at 32 can I truly see that my friend dropping a blanket (anyone there will know what I’m talking about) was a truly awkwardly adolescent moment? Even still, I don’t really feel I have had many Inbetweeners moments.

 At the same time I’ve often justified it to myself by saying I’ve never really had the opportunity. Going to a girls’ school and being a proud social hermit means that I don’t really know any guys, and those that I do, I don’t really fancy, and they understandably don’t really see me as the most desirable human being currently roaming this county. I have chosen to be teetotal (not that I would be drinking underage anyway *cough*), which is probably a small factor contributing to why I have never been drunk (amusingly I was actually pressured by my Mum to drink some Pimms* the other weekend, one of the weirder experiences of my life). Then as to arguing with my parents and never having a detention, I don’t see the joy in deliberately agrivating someone and thus making life hard for everyone else, plus you miss out on so many long term gains (clothes shopping, convincing teachers that you really have just forgotten your homework**). So it’s not exactly as if the opportunity to be an awkard adolescent came to my thirteenth birthday party, but then I sent him away because he wasn’t invited to my future. The reality is I’m just a bit of a boring person.

Source

 Finally I have still got two years at school. And for the first time since primary school (I was very much an “ew boys” kind of girl) I’m going to be entering a mixed environment. Oh dear Lord no. I’m actually going to have to deal with those things with the penis things. And if it is anything like the taster days it will be very very awkward, because the boys and girls have such different reactions to the opposite gender invading their space. Us girls tend to get very excited at the sight of someone possessing a Y chromosome, and we all try to leap on them and claim them as ours. However we encounter a problem: we sort of… Terrify the boys? I mean the boys would stick together and not let any of us double X people in. They would stand so closely packed together it was physically impossible for us to infiltrate. On top of that, no matter where we were, this natural gender divide took place and it was firmly penis' on one side, vaginas on the other. I was rather amusing to observe, even more amusing for those  who had been to mixed secondary schools to watch just how socially inept we all were.

 Every now and then I find myself in the position of longing for the teenage hood that I’m currently living. I’m sitting here writing an angsty teenage post and claiming that I’m not a ‘proper teenager’. I think it might be finally time to accept and realise the adolescence is nothing like it is portrayed as in 90s teenage films and on the Disney channel. However I have my own kind of adolescence,  one which has become centered around education and the relationships I have with my friends. And with my current plans I can see awkward times ahoy, but maybe for the moment I should just celebrate the lack of events that will stop me being employed in the future.

Gwendolen

*I actually had to check how to spell Pimms. That’s how clueless I am when it comes to alcohol related products.

** This was 1) a huge lie- I honestly couldn’t be bothered to do it, however I had been such a good child in the past, she decided to trust me. MWUAHAHAHAHA. And 2) goes back to the motto which my father parted unto me of “Thou shall not be caught”

A snazzy introduction to myself, ‘Gwendolen’

All my beautfil plays and other drama related books, in a rather unsatisfying edit (texture)

Guten Tag! I make up one half of the team, and looking through at the subjects I currently plan to blog about- it will be the ‘harangue’ part most likely. So, like my other beautiful counterpart, Cecily, I am writing under a synonym inspired by the wonderful ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’.

 Now I am sure you are all begging for information about me, and because I’m mean I won’t give you any.

LIES IT IS ALL LIES

I shall give you the bits you need to know.

 I suppose the most important thing* to know that I have issues over food. Not like anorexia, or obesity, in fact I would say I have a fairly healthy body. No, it’s none of that- I believe you should respect your food. Not enough people do! I really think respecting food, and realizing how wonderful a really good meal is would solve many of the world’s problems…. But more on that later….

 My favorite colour doesn’t exist. I feel having one would discriminate against the other ones. And that would be wrong and immoral.

But I am a fan of pink.

And blue.

 In my natural state I like to be a social hermit. However, my friends have done a rather unfortunately good job at tempting me into the outside world. I hate it. But naturally, I like to either be curled up with a little bit of Shakespeare, or maybe watching a rather good BBC Drama/BBC 4 Documentary (1- yes I am a fan of the BBC, and 2- BBC 4 does actually exist), or eating a really nice risotto.

 Life is too short to be guilty over your pleasures, so I don’t have one (NB to clarify- this means I do not have a guilty pleasure, not as my father suggested, that I do not in fact have a life).

 I am big fan all the types of literature: prose, plays, and believe it or not, poetry (and I feel I may as well admit to the fact now that I did indeed get some Carol Ann Duffy for my birthday….). But the guy who has the special place in my heart will always be Shakespeare…. We all need a little Will power every now and then ;)

If I were to describe myself in three words they would be ‘God’ ‘Damn’ and ‘Sexy’. Hahaha no. I feel too weird coming up with three words to describe myself, so I have enlisted the help of my friends…. And here is the beautiful collection of words they have suggested:

Hilarious, beautiful, sexual, messy, clever, pretty, excitable, frolicsome (my personal favorite), compassionate and compelling.

 Well I think that’s everything- so I look forward to shouting at you via the internet seeing you shortly with more excitingly rampant feminist blogs! Yay!

Gwendolen

P.S. Forgot to say I’m a big theatre fan- like when I say big, I mean HUGE. I even have books by Stanislavski. No teenager needs to have that.

P.P.S. I would like to apologise now for the hypocrisy that will probably appear in every blog, but remember not only am I teenager (therefore, I’m currently discovering my political views and blah blah blah) but I am also English.

*I say important, but I really mean is, the first interesting thing that came to my head

Welcome

Welcome Readers! (we're optimistic- it's highly likely that should be in the singular)

Let us introduce ourselves. We are Gwendolyn and Cecily.

If you immediately recognise those names from The Importance of Being Earnest, we already like you, probably (if you don't, shame on you, shame on you). Our names aren't actually those, but we liked them for several reasons that will probably be mentioned in a later post, possibly about how great Oscar Wilde is.

We want to blog pseudonymously because it holds a certain intrigue, and we like intrigue.

We decided on the name "Their Harangues and their Fancies" because you are likely to see harangues, "speeches or pieces of writing characterised by strong feeling or expression; tirades", on this blog as it is a way of us exploring what we think of things and, yes, having an occasional rant (in an amusing or interesting way, of course). "Fancies" as in things that we like. You will see lots of those. Plus who doesn't enjoy a fancy/eloquent/pretentious name?

We really hope you stick around or string along or tattoo our URL to your hand... So hopefully, until next time!

Au revoir,

Cecily and Gwendolyn

PS. Just to show how long we have been planning this, here are some conversations of ours (note the dates):