Can't see the rainforest for the jungle

When I was at primary school we did a project on the jungle.  We learned about sloths and ecosystems and tree canopies.  We studied rainfall, and decked the entire classroom out to look like a jungle, complete with paper-chain creepers and vines.

There was only one thing about the jungle the teacher forgot to tell us.  To this day, I have no idea where on planet earth the jungle is.

And is it the same thing as a rainforest?  Or are rainforest and jungles different?  What's the difference between Epping Forest and a rainforest?  Is either a jungle?

So I asked TheBloke (TM).  He laughed so much at me that he was unable to reply for a full five minutes.  In case anyone like me is confused by the rainforest / jungle terminology and/or location, TheBloke (TM) says:

The jungle and the rainforest are the same thing.  They are mostly found in South America and Africa, but essentially most places along the equator.

This seems to make sense.  Tarzan lived in the jungle and I think he had a pet chimpanzee and they definitely come from Africa.  Or maybe you do get them in South America too.  I don't know.  And "jungle tribes", well the documentaries often show them living in South America.  So that makes sense.

I just have one more question.  When did the rebrand from jungle to rainforest happen?  It must have been some point after 1989 when Mrs Ruddy at Booth Wood Primary School taught us all about the jungle.  But some point before 1993 when McDonalds produced literature saying they weren't chopping down the rainforests.  They never claimed not to chop down the jungles, as far as I'm aware.

So why did they rebrand?  Assuming the two terms are interchangeable, what is inherently better about a rainforest than a jungle?  Living in England, I'm honestly a bit sick of rain, so maybe they did it to put off tourists.  Maybe Um Bongo (the fruit-based, slightly racist drink that claims, "Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the jungle") had to rewrite their entire marketing literature, as "Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the rainforest" didn't sound quite so snappy.

I shall ponder upon this.  Consider it being pondered.

Verbal diary-eah

Since the age of 8 or so I have always, to a greater or lesser extent, kept a diary.  I'm not quite sure what spurred me on to do so, but from it being somewhat of a chore aged 9 or 10 ("Boring day. Me and Jennie played on the computer."), age 12 or so it became something of an obsession.  My diary would be carried to school with me in the inner top pocket of my blazer, and at lunchbreaks, I would write my worldly observations, whilst looking condescendingly at the 12 year olds in the classroom who were - quite frankly - behaving like children.

(Side note, these diary entries mostly involved things like: "Have Maths next - BORING!  I cannot see how calculating the hypotenuse is going to help me in later life.  English was good today." and so on.  Samuel Peyps I was not.)

I would write my diary every day, unless there was an extremely good reason not to, and in times of turbulence, would often write two and sometimes even three times a day.  Of course the term "turbulence" is relevant, and usually meant we had a substitute teacher for English, or I was getting stressed about my music coursework.  I would often scribble so hard and fast, I would end up with exam-hand pain - the diarist would have a dire wrist.  Sorry.

Today I do still keep a diary - indeed, still carry it in my bag to work with me each day, always meaning to write it on the tube, or in a quiet lunchtime.  Sadly, this almost never happens, and diary entries have been reduced to a quick scribble once or twice a month; I can't really regret this - I think it's symptomatic of the fact that my life as a grown up is more settled than that of a teenager.  (Like I said though - it's still relative.  Anyone who thinks I had a turbulent teenage-hood is sadly mistaken.)  But hormones and emotions are running high at that age, and everything feels like a crisis.

But basically, I was a slightly swotty, very dull teenager.  And to prove it (and because Hazel loves it when I share teenage diary entries with the world), here is an entry from when I was 17.  Most 17 year-olds are drinking, shagging behind bus stops (I know this because Mrs Nunn regularly sends me Daily Mail articles telling me that's the case) and shoplifting.  I was in a school play.

Here is a (rare) example of rebellion from me:

I'm sorry I didn't write yesterday but in a vain attempt to get some of my huge piles of schoolwork out of the way, I've been doing three hours plus of homework every evening, which is exhaustive.

I've been behaving out of character today.  I had a double free (study) period this afternoon, and so after informing Mrs Young, my form teacher, of an imaginary dental appointment, I went home.  Lots of people do it on a regular basis, without telling staff at all, so it's not like I'm the school rebel or anything, but it was out of character for me (though lovely to have the afternoon off!)  I guess that's the nearest I'll come to truancy!  Mum and Dad didn't care; it's not like I had any lessons.

Also I was "out of character" in English.  Not exactly extrovert but definitely not introvert.  For example, with the greatest of ease, without blushing or feeling even slightly awkward, I asked for an extension on my English essay, as I've a play rehearsal on Sunday.  The extension, needless to say, was granted.  Also I spoke out for the first time in ages with comments not entirely related to the text.  Talking about Mansfield Park our teacher said, "I could summarise this chapter in one word."  I joked, "What's that, boring?!"  She laughed, after protesting that it wasn't boring, but everyone loathes and detests it.  It really is boring.

***

Unlike your 17-year-old diary, Laura, which is scintillating in every possible way.  You rock.

French kiss

There are certain responsibilities that come with being a sister.  The main one is to wind your siblings up at every possible opportunity.


I was whizzing through some old files on my laptop recently, and I came across a file I had lovingly put together whilst I was at university.  My brother - Jack - was off on a French exchange.  He was an enthusiastic, albeit, inexperienced francophone, and I, with my superior A-level knowledge, was keen to help him out.  Or destroy his life.


I'm afraid the below set of phrases won't be that interesting to anyone who doesn't speak French.  For the rest of you, you might have a giggle.  To this day, I bet Jack regrets asking to have his legs amputated.  Oh, how we laughed.

For your exchange partner's mother

Madame, vous sentez comme une vache.

I love your perfume

Madame, vous avez une belle maison – comment vous la payer?  La prostitution?

Your house is beautiful.  You must work really hard to keep it up.

Madame, ce repas goût du lapins morts.

Mmmm!  This meal is lovely!

Madame, votre fils est vraiment laid

Your son is going to grow up to be a fine young man.

For your exchange partner's father

Monsieur, votre femme est une grosse slapper.

You have a very attractive wife.

Monsieur, je vous pariez que vous avez un pénis comme un hamster

Gosh, you are tall, sir.

Monsieur, vous roulez comme une vieille dame qui n’a aucun yeux.  Aussi, votre voiture est comme une petite boîte française

Wow!  You’re a great driver, and I love your French car!

General useful phrases

Puis-je avoir un bain?  Oui, peut-être c’est pas normal en France, mais en Angleterre, nous nous lavons de temps en temps.

Can I have a bath, please?  I like to keep myself clean.

Je suis desolée – je ne peux pas le manger.  Non, je ne suis pas végétarian – simplement, je déteste votre cuisine 

I’m sorry, I can’t eat meat – I’m vegetarian.

Votre maison est un peu comme une porcherie, et je déteste votre famille.  J’espère que la famille est effacé par un météorite.

It’s been delightful staying with you and your family are great.  And hasn’t the weather been lovely?

Non, j’ai détesté votre musée stupide, et le picnic était horrible.  Demain puis-j’aller au cinéma?  Au cinéma je ne dois pas vous parler.

The museum was really interesting and the picnic was lovely.  Tomorrow could we go to the cinema?  I’d love to soak up even more of your fab French culture.

Les français sont comme les grands oignons.

The French are such superior beings.

J’avais eu plus d’amusement a l’école, à Latin 

Gosh, isn’t this fun?

Medical problems

Mon pénis est tombé au plancher

I have a sore throat.

Éteindrez mon ventilator, s’il vous plaît

I’m going to live, damn you!

Est-ce qu’il y a la posibilité d’une amputation des jambes?

I think I’ve sprained my ankle.

Homesickness

Je voudrais rester ici pour la reste de ma vie 

I’d really like to go home now.

Je voudrais télephoner aux États-Unis, pour quelques heures – c’est bon? 

Can I make a quick call home?

Votre maison – elle pue

Your house is lovely, but I’d like to phone home

Détruez tous mes lettres de l’Angleterre, s’il vous plaît.

Are there any English letters for me?

French culture

C’est vrai que seulment 2 personnes en France ont la capacité de lire et écrire?

Gosh, what a high level of literacy you have in France.

Tous vos “artistes” sont slips.

All your French artists are really good.  Not pants at all.

Qu’est-ce que c’est pour dîner ce soir?  Ca pu comme le cheval.

What’s for dinner tonight?  It smells lovely.

Chatting up girls

Mon dieu!  Tu est vraiment laide!  Je n’ai jamais vu une fille si laide!

I’ve noticed you around, and I find you very attractive.

Veux-tu coucher avec moi?  Maintenant?  Dans une boîte de téléphone?

Would you like to come to the cinema?

J’ai déjà couché avec ta mère et ta soeur – et son père et le chien.

I’ve met your mother and father – they’re lovely.  And your sister and your dog.

Working girl

I have been extremely busy at work recently.  Not the sort of busy where you think, "Ho hum, I've barely had the time to do my internet banking today and I only got to take 40 minutes for lunch," but the sort of busy where not only is the idea of lunch entirely ridiculous (like some clichéd 80s' film about investment banking... oh wait a minute), but where you don't quite get round to getting yourself a glass of water.  On Wednesday last week, I worked ten hours without getting up to go to the toilet.  Mostly because I hadn't had enough time to get a glass of water, therefore didn't really have the need.

I know this isn't good, isn't healthy - hell, isn't even productive in the long term, but we all have weeks like this.  But it does make me laugh, especially as I'm trying to plan a wedding.  I say "plan a wedding" - I'm extremely fortunate that my sister-in-law-to-be is doing the vast majority of the logistics, and the very most I ever have to do is to reply to her emails with my choices.  So she'll email me and ask me what time I want the hairdresser, and what sort of flowers I want and she does the rest.  That is lovely.  But the wedding magazines make me laugh.

I only bought one (and I shan't do it again - at least not until my next wedding), but here are a few top tips:

• Try to do one thing each day that isn't related to the wedding; take a walk or make a dentist appointment.  

Really?  Just one thing?  OK.  But I might lose my job, be unable to pay my part of the mortgage, and my relationship might break up as a result of the stress.  But if you say so.

• Wear your wedding shoes every day for at least four hours, whilst you're walking round the house

This sounds like sensible advice.  And fuck - they are certainly uncomfortable shoes.  But I did ask the wedding assistants and they were quite adamant that Uggs aren't really appropriate bridal attire.  But I don't get home from work until 7 p.m. at the earliest.  This means I have to stay up until 11 p.m., walking round the house.  This is what my schedule normally looks like on a weeknight:  7 p.m. get home.  7.30 p.m. cook dinner. 8 p.m. eat and watch TV until 9.30 p.m. when I get into bed.  Perhaps I could see if my employers think it's OK for me to wear my wedding shoes in the office?

• Step up your skincare!  From 12 months before the wedding you should be having regular monthly facials. Invest in some top-quality moisturiser.

12 months?  Seriously?  He only proposed in May.  Regular facials?  I was planning on maybe using some moisturiser a week or so before the wedding.  Will that do?

• Diet!  Eat healthily, exercise. You'll feel great, be healthy and look slimline on your big day!

Fuck off.  I made pastry from scratch today.  It has shitloads of butter in but it tastes great.  Besides, now I've caught myself a man, I thought the whole point was I could now let myself go.  Why else would I get married?

I might write an alternative wedding guide.  Wedding guide for the lazy bride.  Has a ring to it.  Geddit?  A ring?  I'll go now.

Revenge of the fat lollers

I like to think I'm a fairly stoic Londoner; I take the rough with the smooth, and generally have decided that the benefits outweigh the drawbacks.  However, this last week has been particularly horrendous as far as commuting goes, with delays in either one or both directions on the daily work journey, with a grand finale on Friday. It took me a grand two and a half hours to get to work, including a delightful half-hour spent hemmed in at Bank Station, unable to exit or move left or right, owing to massive volumes of people.  Bank Station isn't even on my route to work.  Fuckers.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the staff on the Jubilee Line are intentionally fucking up the service, in reaction to job cuts.  You heard it here first.

On the way home on Friday, I'd had enough.  And whilst the transport that evening was running normally (probably because most of the usual commuters had committed suicide on their journey into work that day... knowing my luck, by throwing themselves under the nearest Central Line train), I still managed to have an irritating commute.  I was sat next to a fat loller.  See here for my thoughts on fat lollers from a few years ago.

This one was not a bus loller, but a tube loller.  He lolled to the extent that his head lolled past my shoulders and towards my chest.  He eventually lolled so much that I wondered if he was actually attempting to breast feed.  I poked him with the pointy corner of my work bag.  He didn't wake up.  I poked him again, harder.  He continued to sleep.  I elbowed him in the head.  He still didn't wake up.

It was at this point I realised he was dead.

No, of course he wasn't.  But wouldn't that have been awful  And also a little bit funny?  Oh.  Never mind.

But question: why do fat people fall asleep / loll more than thin people?

Mucus/Music

Ploggers, Ploggers, apologies for the extended absence.  I have been super-super busy at work (which I have complained about, but apparently that's why they pay me - who knew?), plus TheBloke (TM) and I went away for the weekend to Amsterdam.  He had a cold (sorry, was at death's door), and I was exhausted.  So we mostly slept.  But it was nice to sleep without a biting ginger bastard cat waking me at 6 a.m.

Now I'm at death's door (it's NOT a cold.  I am SO much more ill than TheBloke (TM) and am proving it by complaining a lot more than he did).  This seems massively unfair, seeing as I had proper swine flu just before Christmas.  I am currently feeling like a giant snot-bag.  Hmm, maybe I should incorporate that into my wedding vows.

So, wedding planning is going pretty well.  We're compiling the iPod playlist at the moment for the disco as we're not having a DJ.  My taste revolves around mostly 60s' music, with the occasional one-hit wonder thrown in.  TheBloke (TM)'s taste is more rock-oriented.  We have about three songs we actually both like.  This could be interesting.  The Venn diagram of our music tastes contains only REM and Alanis Morissette.

I will Plog properly about Amsterdam soon.  In the meantime, I am trying not to drip snot on the keyboard.  At least I'm using TheBloke (TM)'s computer.  Teach him to give me his nasty germs.