France

  I am now in France, beginning my six month jounry that is sure to test me in many forms, but right now it is testing me in the area of "Keeping Valuable Items and Not Loosing Them". Grr.

  Alreeady, I have tried a range of new foods, brought expenive coffee in London that cost me five freaking Euro, practically been sunburnt, made friends with a Hollander and a Kiwi and put the Australian flag proudly across my bed. It's a bunk bed by the way, and I am on the bottem bed. I keep hitting my head all the time, but it's a bed, with a ladder, so it's okay (minor Doctor Who reference there).

  Today we have The Test, which will sort the Bad from the Good, lanuage wise. I am expecting to be in the lower stream, but my good friend Georgie (who did the same trek a year ago) was in the lower one, and she is amazingly smart.

  So I think it should be breakfast now, but we still have an hour.

Wow. I just winked at a kiwi.



Love Ell x

France (the Others)

It's going to happen, Internet, and soon.
Maybe it's too soon. I barely know the language, and a lump rises in my throat at the very thought of leaving everyone I love for so long.

 Recently,  I was discussing my definite plans for going over to France for five-and-a-half months, and she asked me why. I hesitated for a moment, because it really was such an obvious question that I just presumed everyone knew why I was going. To study, to learn, have fun, expand my views on the world, blah-bla-blaaaaah..
But behind the lump of sadness (great personification, there Ell, really well done) there is a knot, a clique, a nexus, a spiral, a pack, a gathering, a tumour of something that makes me want to catch the nearest train out to anywhere. That may be part of the reason why I want to travel.

Here are the Others: 

• Ride a scooter down the Champs-Élysées 
• Feel that tingle down my spine as the Mona Lisa herself smiles at me
• Nearly crack my neck trying to see all of  Château du Versailles at once
• Speak really terrible English because I have only been talking in French
• Ski down the back of the Alps
• Open those doors on the windows that only France seems to have
• Ride a hot air balloon across a sea of lavender
• Dodge the infamous load of dog-poop that is apparently *all* over Paris (this is from my Uncle, btw)
• Hold hands under the Eiffel Tower
• Eat a multi-coloured macaroon 
• And it's not stopping there

• Love Ell x

Lalala Short Story Time!

Workexperience was great, thanks for asking! But now I am back, and have nothing but the holidays, so hopefully I will get back into the swing of blogging. And to start this ball rolling, I present to thee:

Petty Revenge
A short story

The warm ocean surrounded me, calmly swaying and moving around my long board. I shifted slighly on the waxy surface of the old surf board, looking around in search of that next big wave that would bring me back to shore. No waves appeared on the horizen, but I calmed by rising fears of being swept far out to sea, and closed my eyes, breathing in the salty air.

Somthing brushed agasint my leg.

I stifled a scream, and leapt haphazardly onto my board, attempting to squash all my limbs onto it's narrow surface, whilst peering into the deep blue sea. I could see nothing execpt for a large, dark something far down below me. But it could be anything. There is no need to panic.
I over balanced, and toppled head first into the salty water. The stringy hair in my eyes, the salt water clogging my wind pipe, and the grip I couldn't find on my now slippery board all made me panic uncontrollably. And whatever was down below, the something that had brushed agasint my leg and started this mess, sped up to the surface of the ocean to meet me.

A shark.

I knew it.

Cold, consuming fear over took me.
There were times when I noticed everything with such painful clarity that it almost killed me. Pain, water, cold, shark, fear.
There were also times where I was almost blissly numb.
I could feel the shark's teeth sinking into my leg. I didn't feel my leg being ripped away, and for that I am thankful for.

Then I blacked out, and felt nothing more.


Three days later, I woke up in hostpital, screaming about montress fish with flesh-tearing teeth. The nurse hurried in, soothing me, it's only a dream.
I nodded, reasurred slightly, and wiped my sweaty forehead.
"Shall I fetch your dinner, sir?" said the Nurse cautiously.
I grunted, and she hurried away.
Ten minutes later, she returned looking sheepish.

"The dinner tonight is...Fish and Chips.."

I smiled an almost evil smile, and ran my tounge over my teeth.
I was going to enjoy this.


- - - - -

There! Finished!!
I hope y'all enjoyed it. The idea came to me at Red Rooster, because Hungry!Daddy was eating this seafood basket, and the boxes that the food come in at Red Rooster have bits of newspaper printed on them, because seafood is traditionally served in newspaper or somthing.
So the newspaper, because I read it, was saying that this guy had been attacted by a shark, which I thought was kinda funny considering this was printed on a box CONTAING FISH. Ahh..

Did it make sense? Would you like MORE yummy short stories? And, more importantly, what did I learn at work experience?

Love Ell,
xx

Challenge FAILED :((

SHIZZEL MA NIZZLE!


Yo there bloggers, how are you this fine night?

I have this friend. Many of you may know her (both personally and/or by her brilliant blog) as Quack, and she features prominently in this exciting episode of Ell Really Should Concentrate On What Mr History Teacher Is Saying and Not Be Blogging! Yay!

So onto the Quack story. Our bud Klara had just got home from exchange and we were celebrating her being home at the local nom-nom-nom place. We (Georgie, Toongen and the aforementioned  Quack) were casually (not singing really loudly in the slightest) talking about how Toogn so did not write a fan-fict. about people IRL, and Quack said in an undertone, “God, I hope no-one write a fict. about Bladdison...” To which I lept to my feet, and triumphantly punched to air, yelling “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! I, Astro Ell, will hereby begin to formulate a plot that will totally prove that Blakey Hearts Quack, and not STOP UNTIL I GET LAID!”

Or something like that.

(Note: Without giving the game away, Bladdison is the ship name, devised by yours truly, for Quack and her lover-boy, Blakey. They are so canon)

Thus, I tirelessly worked and thought and watched various science-fiction shows (cough Doctor Who cough) over the coming weeks, searching every available space in my brain for inspiration for this story that I had to write, but alas, nothing came to me.

That is, until I had this epiphany that was the reason for me to write this blog.

I realised that I couldn’t possibly write a fan-fict about Bladdison. How could I? Everything I had tried to write was too Harry Potter, too Scott Pilgrim, too Doctor Who, to0 much like every freaking DC Comic ever made.

You see, Bladdison is basically a fan-fiction. Except, it’s not fiction. And not created by a fan. Unless God is an air-condition. Presuming there is a God. (GET BACK ON TRACK!)

Here is a basic outline of the relationship:

• They live about six hours apart

• He is a bit of a flirt (from what my facebook stalking can gather, but don’t quote me on that)

• There is a crazy stalker slut who is in love with Blakey

• She is so freaking weird

• He just wants to study; no relationships in the most important schooling year

• She (Quack, no crazy stalker whore) (or is there a difference?) (ZING!) is too of an independent, self-sustained, liberated, free women-girl to fall in love.

• There are goodnight texts.

• There are goodnight texts.

• There are good night texts.

• Did I mention the goodnight texts Quack getting this ridiculously adorable smile/blush every time Blakey is mentioned in conversation?

That sounds like a fan-fict, no? So maybe I just have no inspiration, which would be a huge load of suck.

So this is where it ends. Thank you for reading this relieving post about a formally well-structured and (romantically) loveless girl. Then again, I might just be saying all this just to bring her down in my attempts to because the WORLDS GREATEST BLOGGER. BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Love Ell : ) x

PS, Did anyone else read that in Barney Stinson’s voice? I sure did when I re-read this.

So I did this for school..

The Boatshed is a traditional fish and ship shop. It is located in the heart Bateman's Bay, and although it sits right near one of the most prestigious restaurants in the region, there is always a queue that sometimes bends out the door.

As you line up, waiting to order your fish, you see the seafood on beds of ice and lemons, and several hands snatching various fillets to cook and batter. The wait is normally about 20 minutes, (just enough time to build up a tremendous apatite driven by the wonderful smells wafting from the pans behind the counter) but it is all worth it when you take the tray stacked with small straw baskets pilled high with hot chips, fresh salad and melt-in-your-mouth battered fish.

But that is not all the Boatshed offers. There is also a porch that stretches across the river that runs through Bateman's, with crystal-clear waters, and filled with a bright assortment of fish, a small fishermen's' boat bobbing in the gentle waves and even the odd manta ray that the workers fondly name.

Victoria949:)

Just wanted to make sure you guys check out my besties blogg!
Check it out! <3



Ps. This was so hacked :)

I CHANGED THINGS. AGAIN.

What does one do at 12.02 am when she can’t sleep? She blogs, of course!

This is my first post in quite a long time, and I have somewhat matured in my wordy-words, so I hope this is enjoyable to read. Without prolonging any further, today’s topic! It’s something a little bit different to the stuff I normally post on here.

I have been reading a book, dearest internet friends. It is called The Messenger, and was scribbled by Markus Zusak, who apparently writes books as a hobby rather than a career and (I quote) “watches the same movies over and over and over again”. He seems a lovely old chap, (well, he’s not that old, around 36, so he is actually pretty young-ish) and lives in Sydney.

This book is about a lad called Ed who is basically going no-where in life. He gets some cards in the mail, some crazy shit happens, and Hey PRESTO! We have our messenger.  It sounds (and is, to be frank) odd, but somehow our bud Markus has made it into a powerful novel that government schools study in Year 10.

I particularly like this author because of his unique writing style. In everyday context it would make zero sense, but in this book it creates a realistic scene you can almost taste.  For example:

“I laugh and the stars watch. It’s good to be alive”

You can’t take his writing literally. Doing so would confuse the hell out of anyone. I love that quote because of the picture it paints in one’s mind. Oh yeah, the quote is from the Messenger, by the way.  And this little rave/rant/doobly-doo is too.

Ed Kennedy.

He is such a waste of space. Good for nothing, too much like his drunk of a father, going no-where, unlike his babe of a younger brother, who is smart, rich and not in that backwash of a town that Ed hasn’t yet escaped. All he does is play cards with his equally lame friends (and Audrey, the hot girl who can’t love a thing) and drive people around in a Taxi.

Then the Ace of Diamonds rocks up in his mailbox, with directions too some supposedly random houses. The plot thickens, Ed gets a few more dimensions, and this seemingly flat-panel world becomes extended and complex.

(This is where I may start to not make any sense what so ever. Just a heads up.)

Instead of simply stating that these people that Ed has to deliver messages have complicated backgrounds that make them rapists/evil/catholic/violent/smelly, Markus actually lets the reader feel these traits. He joins words that normally wouldn’t be compared, uses phrases that normally wouldn’t comprehend and all the while sticks to the common theme: the cards.

Not understandin’? Well, maybe this odd comparison will help me make my point.

Think of a painting. The most wonderful, realistic canvas that you have ever seen. It’s all right there, plain and simple, yet so confusing and magnificent. (Well, at least I HOPE it is...). This book, and others by Markus, are like that painting. You can smell the grass, taste the orange and breathe in that endless blue sky. (Just presuming that your imaginary paints only depict an orange, some grass and a bluest blue sky.)

It might my babbling easier to understand if you read the book. Then again, it is 12.37 in the freaking morning, and my brain isn’t working properly. So I think I shall leave this lovely little post here.

Thank you for reading :) I think the next post will be about The King’s Speech and how that made me want to travel. Yeah, I don’t get how it made me want to either.

Love Ell x