The logic of my mind. Or not.

Anybody who knows me really well will be kind enough to admit that my mind is the physical representation of a drop slide. A drop slide you say? Take yourself back to those egg and cheese stinking indoor Children's play centres, the ones with the verruca infested ball pools of death and the rolling cylinders that you have to squeeze through, which are to blame for the stunt in growth of those mountains we women call boobs on our chests (at a young age constantly wishing your chest away so that you can squeeze through these bitches and tag the ginger bully kid ahead has a detrimental effect on your booby's growth in later life- objective research yet to be undertaken, but for now this can be added to my plethora of reasons behind my lack of breasticles) I used to walk in that place the queen of 'Go Bananas' and be dragged out kicking and screaming defeated by the same ginger kid  who led me naively into a future of flat chasteness and who rejected the sense of 'share' or 'play'- my face was rather 'mush bananas' than 'Go bananas'.


But anyway once you are old and wise enough (roughly at the ripe age of 8) you get to the top of the play area, which at the time is like climbing to the base camp of everest. But finally you make it only to be confronted with this massive drop slide. When I was younger I would literally sit there for half an hour watching all of the brave kids take the plunge only to get up and walk away crying. These drop slides are horrendous, you know in Lion King when Simba and Nala slide into the Elephant graveyard where all is grim and nasty- its like that and we all know how that ended (naughty Simba!) 


And this has impacted me and the way my mind works later in life. At the top of that drop slide all I felt was 'YES DO IT ALL THE OTHER KIDS ARE YAY!' but then this unreconcilable fear entered my pigtailed head... If you go down this drop slide you will definitely die. And what is worse is that this irrational and ad hoc way of thinking has followed me to maturity and to the actually ripe age of 21. I am so unbelievably illogical in my train of thought that it normally ends with the consequence of me doing something is dying. Or failing. 


The reason behind this story is my utter frustration with myself that I can't even be that normal slightly rebellious person that every student has in them, I just want to skip a class once in a while and sleep in watching Frozen Planet and Young Apprentice. What does my mind say 'No Laura, you will die'. On the contrary this is one of the reasons that I have never taken drugs and never will take drugs so at once my drop slide mentality is a bitch and a blessing. 


Fucking Go Bananas. 

Just when you think you're having a great day...

You're normally not, it's that simple. Just when you think that you are having a fab day it turns around and bites you in the ass. In fact as a student there is a lot of ass biting! In particular the self inflicted ass biting kind. Good that huh?!


Anyway cue my ass biting (not literally before you start thinking that I need some sort of hound muzzle). 


At the moment quite frankly I am a donkey on the edge. Ajaj has booked his tickets out of here and back to the land of sand, to which I just think absolutely fabulous good for him, totally happy, unbelievably cool about this whole situuu-bizzle going on let me just die a little inside. Ahem. So we spent a gorgeous day in London eating Sushi, people watching and shopping, the things we generally do best. Today however involved some considerable bird poop dodging as the pigeons in Oxford street tried their wings at shit-on-the-shopper (an enjoyable activity to tide their time by amidst consuming left-over burger baps on the street, grooming one another and humping on the Nelson's column.) It's all very funny until you get what can only be described as backsplash on the toe of your clean suede boots. By the way, there is NOTHING casual and Blasé about wiping bird crap, or any kind of crap off of your shoe (even if it is done in a SATC Carrie-esque style) it looked a lot more elegant in the movie. 


So my man and I part ways and I hop onto the 16:05 back to Egham, my choice of carriage sans human beings was soon deemed useless when an old man sat directly opposite me and pretended to do his crossword whilst peering over his spectacles and examining my every move. Honestly, the carriage was empty was that seat REALLY the only one which took your liking? In my head there was then a massive debate do I move and make it obvious that I'm uncomfortable or do I stay hold my nose and pretend everything is fine? My mind is honestly what I (and I'm sure my boyfriend) would call 'reductio ad absurdum' making this man a mass murderer and therefore my life in danger. Honestly WHAT is wrong with me?! I'm sure he had a perfectly lovely wife a home making him a brew and waiting for his arrival but in my head all he had in his house was bodily remains and a chainsaw. I think the ending to this story is obvious. I hopped off of the 16:05 to Egham in one piece and jumped into the taxi home (You don't even need to ask what I thought the taxi driver would do to me...)


So far the day wasn't too bad at all, until I attempted to hand wash a white shirt with my cutesy purple shower gel and shampoo (Possibility brand Amber and lavender)- mental note taken, do this is you want to tie-dye your clothes in the future- not so chic for an evening shift at the restaurant however....FAIL. 


Yours Always,


your Blunderfully Ridiculous L x

A Broken Pinky, Many a road trip to Suffolk and One whole Chocolate Orange in an Evening- my slow decline into third year turmoil...

Absolute utter carnage is the only way that I could describe the past two months. Okay Okay its not been too bad, just mildly tragic. My motto this year is work hard and die doing so. For one evening, ONE EVENING during Freshers week I decide to venture out to the Shabby-not-so-chic Students Union of ROHO for my friends birthday. Having been working all evening I was clearly very sober in that 'I-dont-need-drink-to-have-fun' attitude. No I don't need drink, but I do need two feet to stand on! At the bar, shattering with my friends, when what I can only describe as an over-zealous competition of bum-busting concluded with me soaring through the air having slipped on inevitably some wasted fresher's puke....found my feet but slipped like Bambi on ice and i'm a gonna'. I'm a gonna' sue somebodies ass more like!! Obviously I try to play it cool but with cheap filthy VK as my latest hair accessory, how is this going to work? But Alas, I carry this off in style....I close my gymnastic split legs to hide my horrendous (and un-matching) floral panties, I find my two feet like man's first landing on the moon, I flick my sopping hair out of my eyes and casually yet too elegant for my own liking, take a massive swig of my VK (Still holding it wasn't I!)...Right, now who's up for a jaeger Bomb?! Don't judge asshole, how else was I suppose to drown my sorrows and hide my shame!?

Pictures courtesy of the Wonderful Lydia Manser Cheers for that chicken! I fear these are rather out of hilarity as opposed to concern. Hmph!! 


Yours Truly, 


The Blundersaurus Rex. 

And the race is on...

So the beautifully chic and fabulous Chanel is one of many to roll up the sleeves of their fashion fight blazers in the run up to London Fashion week. Chanel spends £4 million on completely dominating the plethora of window displays that make up the shiny exquisite coating of Harrods, negating any opposing fashion house which may accidentally tip toe its way to the top (would they ever!). If this isn't enough my expansive peripheral vision was occupied by Chanel marketing throughout the store and a stunning pop-up boutique in which you can meander in a Chanel induced Coma just dreaming of a day that this could all be yours. And all just prior to the City's most lusted after fashion event- London Fashion Week. Bravo to the Chanel house, you have outdone the rest and possibly yourself....utter genius.

My KO of the student rental system....

Naive, young and vulnerable; the delicious recipe for 20111's budding student intake and the wholesome dinner ready to be devoured by rotund landlords and money hungry estate agents. I see right through them. Now. Not so much last year and this is why I want to project a little 'Do or Die' list for future students who are going into rented accommodation.

DONT DO IT.

I'm Kidding, its fun, fabulous and the epitome of freedom. You're landlord will scream, you're fire alarm will probably scream louder and unfortunately your housemate on the opposite side of the wall to your bedroom, may even scream louder than that. Rule number one. Buy some earplugs and forget that they're in there. Lecturers use visually interactive aids such as power points anyway (just to patronize us students further)

Unfortunately my whole relationship with student housing has been somewhat unbalanced and therefore we are currently on a break. Its a bit one sided, I give a lot, the powers that be take a lot. And that's it.

It was the end of a beautiful summer of an alcohol induced coma when I found out that I was going to Royal Holloway University of London; it was my second choice (No i'm not going to go into a rant about that as i'm grateful that I didn't end up in that tunnel of what is bound to be incestuous relations with my peers because the place is so bloody stuck in a bubble- oh look there the rant is...) and therefore I didn't get student accommodation. I cried. I cried. I drank away my hollow sorrows. And I cried some more.

Its crazy how when put into these dire life or death situations (here comes dramatic 15 year old me again), your mind reacts. And thankful I went into proactive 'FIND-SOME-SANE-HOUSEMATES' mode (I feel the capitals aided it in its heroic quest ambiance a little). I scoured Facebook groups related to the university to find lost ducklings in the same position as myself and after hours of picking each and every one of their photos apart I found three normal looking girls who I felt safe to say guess did not have Bipolar, Schizophrenia or any mentally related illness' which may jeapordise my likelihood of making it alive through my first year.

FIND-SOME-SANE-HOUSEMATES DONE!

Going into my second year and finding accommodation likewise was not pleasant. With a new landlord that resembled Frank Butcher enduring the Big Mac Challenge and was 100% the leader of Staines' finest gypsy clan/mafia it's easy to guess that the guy tried to diddle us left right and centre. And thankfully that is not a euphemism- but I wouldn't put it past him.

In a heated exchange where I took the guy on, boxing ring style, Loz the Bloz Vs the Bibbinator- spectators et al (including one of my housemates mothers who stood by and reveled in the carnage) our face off ended with me reciting the contract line by line and him backing down like a puppy dog. From that moment on I kept the leash tight and he respected me like Queen Latifah on crack. KNOW YOUR CONTRACTS AND KNOW YOUR RIGHTS. Landlords often see students as merely a money sign in their eyes. DING DING. The only DING DING Loz the Bloz was hearing was the sound of a definite KO at the end of Round 1...

LOZ THE BLOZ KNOCKOUT- DONE

From then onwards funnily enough Loz sent his younger and thankfully more articulate son round. How far can the apple fall from the tree? Down the Grand Canyon in this case I think. I had no problems throughout my second year of student rental apart from in the closing stages of the tenancy. MAKE SURE YOU DO EVERYTHING AND DO NOT TRUST ANYBODY. Pessimistic...me...never. 15 Emails, 19 Phonecalls and many the irritable texts later and I still have not received final bills which were promised to me by the estate agents. The prospect of not having to pay final bills is fabulous. See ya never house, see ya never Bills, see ya never bloz I am FREE from responsibility HELLO summer in the Middle East and Road Trips in Tatty Bo Brumbles (my shagadelic Corsa). That is until two years down the line when you decide to be an adult and request a loan for a mortgage and realize swiftly when they shoot you down like a Bad-ass criminal that your name has been blacklisted for the debt collectors. It's worth paying those final bills, least to save the humiliation of any kind of rejection!

The absolute epitome of my encounters with Landlords and Estate Agents has to be during this testing time. I was told when leaving the property that the estate agents would take final readings and inform the utility suppliers. I was told this. Words of the English language specimen exited the disgusting painted lip lined mouth of an over tangoed estate agent, travelling through the beauty of sound waves into my intently listening ears and  I ingested the information feeling quite satisfied that I got the jist of what would happen. Apparently not. Apparently when Estate Agents say they will do something what in fact they do is the absolute opposition. Or Jack Shit. OR and gosh I hadn't thought of this previously- Some kind of information sucking death eater had escaped from the fictional wonder that is the Harry Potter novel, sucked all of this information out of the airwaves and regurgitated it back in the form of utter bullshit. When I reinstated what was said to me two months later, their reply was this- 'Are you sure...that's what was said...like absolutely sure..cause I don't think we said that' (imagine a gum-chewing chavette with poker straight hair and down-syndrome eyeliner). Obviously I was incredibly grateful that they had jogged my memory in such a way to remind myself that I was an utter mental case and tended to just fabricate situations in my head. Oh, and my father of 45 years old, an ex-CID Police officer who could remember a number plate within seconds of reading it, was present also.

Bibbinator Vs. Loz AND Estate Agents... TO BE CONTINUED. In The meantime students stand up for your Rights.

Raindrops and Rubies: Priorities.....

Raindrops and Rubies: Priorities.....: Swish, swish....Blow Blow. Sorry, just dusting off the cobwebs of this poor neglected little blog right here. If there were to be a charity ...

Priorities.....

Swish, swish....Blow Blow. Sorry, just dusting off the cobwebs of this poor neglected little blog right here. If there were to be a charity for the revival of all those abandoned blogs out there, Raindrops and Rubies would be the lonely, puppy-dog-eyed face of it...and I Laura Bibby, clearly too busy basking in a summer of self-indulgent, hedonistic and quite frankly fabulous love, would be the piece de resistance of a 'Most Wanted for Neglect' sign. 


But alas, a precipice of doom has dawned upon me that my long-term boyfriend is vacating this beautiful country of riots, newspaper scandal and Pippa Middleton's bum, for the likes of dirt cheap petrol, Drive-Thru Krispy Creme doughnuts and Gold plated Shopping Malls in the Middle East. Pah, what you will come to realize is that I am not in the slightest bit bothered, will not miss him at all and will definitely not miss all of the fabulous fun that we have had in the city this past year. My sarcasm is WAY too transparent!


So, little blog, you and I are going to form a wonderful and bounteous relationship within which I will projectile vomit my adventures and mutterings and you will be the canvas upon which these are splattered. My final year of university will consist of me cohabiting with the library staff, potentially leading to a civil partnership with the library itself, and the surgical removal of my trusty ball point pen (I hate Biros) from my hand (And while they're at it something to cure my considerable lack of chest). Ideally I would like to finish with a top class degree and some remaining scraps of life and soul that I manage to revive through travelling with my best friend Alice (Hereafter referred to as 'The Hoff'), visiting and distracting my boyfriend (Hereafter referred to as Ajaj) from his own hectic work schedule, and divulging my innermost darkest ponderings through you dear blog. And Throughout all of this I will learn to be a responsible and independent adult ready to take on the entire world and what it throws at me.* 




*Apart from Kitten heels and Chavs....quite frankly I cant really handle either of those.