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And so November is almost upon us, which means several things...

1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.

Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!

One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.

Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.

In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...

A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…

It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...

A Passion For Fashion

Technically I suppose that’s a bit of a misnomer, since you could never in a million years accuse me of being a fashion victim. The whole purpose of “fashion” as far as I can make out is to ensure that you blend in with the rest of the herd; Gods forbid that you should step outside “the rules” and look different to anyone else. And it seems to me that it doesn’t matter which ‘clique’ you’re part of, even the metal community; if you dress differently it’s not fashion and you, shameful blight on humanity that you are, will never be ‘in’.

I am, very happily, not ‘in’. I wear what the hell I like; sometimes I’m a jeans and band t-shirt kinda gal; other times I go for full-on Goth; sometimes I channel neo-Victorian, other times I dress like a Woodstock-going hippy and sometimes I wear something so odd that it makes even my nearest and dearest go ‘eh?’ (Ducky Dress FTW!!) I mix high street, vintage and charity shop finds and if you were to ask me to define my style, quite honestly I’d struggle. So explain to me, please, why I spent the day at the ExCel Centre ‘up tahn’ (in London, for those of you who haven’t seen ‘This is Essex’ and don’t speak the lingo) at Britain’s Next Top Model Live?

Actually, for all that it was a shallow girlie-fest of clothes, beauty, shopping, makeovers and celebrities I’d never heard of (with the exception of the charming Mr James Nesbitt, who actually IS that fabulous in real life), it was pretty good fun. The people-watching opportunities were fabulous, both the so-called celebrities and the ‘real’ shoppers and wannabes. I saw vintage vixens, goth girl glamour pusses, high street cuties (I nearly said ‘high street honeys’, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish…) and designer divas; women of all ages (and a few bored looking men and some very excited GBF’s) strutting their stuff, most of them wearing whatever happens to be ‘in’ at the moment. It was a joy to see the occasional gem standing out from the crowd in whatever she felt comfortable in rather than the same old, same old, but it was a helluva time, I can tell you. We had VIP tickets (darling) and so, with air-kisses all round (sweetie) I channelled my best Anna Wintour impression (I can’t think of any other fashionista phrases) as we took in the fashion show. I have no idea which of the models on the catwalk were actually in the last series of BNTM (never watched it) but the clothes were pretty amazing. And yours truly was very, very good and only bought two very cute little vintage-inspired dresses and a very dinky little thing that goes over the button of your jeans, shaped like Dorothy’s ruby slippers. What can I say? It might not be fashion, sweetie-darling, but it’s very, very me…

Oh, and FYI…I was wearing Ducky dress, black leggings, a black cardi and my tartan shoes from Ness. Proper glam. Not…

I Have A Dream...

No, before you ask, this is not me doing my Martin Luther King impression. Not that I've ever done such an impersonation but, hey, there's a first time for everything...I digress. No, this is about an actual dream that I have and the great Dr King's word's just seemed appropriate.

Not that this is the sort of politically-charged ideological dream that he had. Don't get me wrong, I have my own Utopian fantasies where everyone gets along with everyone else and everyone is happy and there's no war/famine/pestilence/Simon Cowell, but it's not that kind of dream I'm blogging about. Nor is it the sort of dream where I'm slowly spit-roasting David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osbourne over an open fire whilst cackling like a hag, although maybe both of those are worth blog entries in their own right...nope, this dream is both a little more sensible, a little more modest and a little more fantastical.

I have a dream. My dream is to have a library.

Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing now. It's true - I am absolutely desperate to have a library of my own. I feel dreadful for my poor books at the moment, scattered around in two bookcases, various boxes and several piles on the floor; it's inhumane to treat them like that. My books deserve to be on beautifully designed shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling; in an ideal world they'd be spiralling round and round in an endless labyrinth (like in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's masterpiece 'The Shadow of the Wind' - if such a place really existed, I would move in at once), but if not then just shelves as far as the eye could see would do. I've been fascinated by libraries ever since I was a child and I was taken to get my very first library ticket; having become an ardent reader and lover of books by the age of 3, the idea that I could just go to this place and take out as many books as I wanted, before bringing them back and exchanging them for more, was a concept that seemed too good to be true. Second-hand and antique book shops have always cast a spell over me, but so have libraries, and every time I was taken to a Stately 'Ome or still-inhabited castle, I was always endlessly delighted by the different libraries I saw (and always slightly put out that I couldn't go up to the shelves to a) see what Lord and Lady Such-and-Such were reading and b) take a book down from the endless shelves and curl up for an hour or so to have a good read). I was fortunate to have been blessed with a godmother who is a librarian, so she was always able to provide me with hits of the good stuff, and so enamoured was I of libraries as a child that I was library prefect at both Primary and Secondary school (yes, yes, I was a girlie swot for a time). Books have been my saviours, my friends and my kindred spirits since my early childhood; their myriad voices speak to me across time, space and language and they have both moved and inspired me in ways I could not have imagined when I first started out on this journey as A Reader.

And now it seems I have discovered a new friend who feels the same way about books as I do and who has written books of his own, one of which has inspired me to give further thought to the idea - the dream - of My Library. Alberto Manguel's two most recent books, 'A Reader on Reading' and 'The Library at Night' are like elegiac love songs to both books and libraries; personal journeys, literary histories and sociological encyclopaedias, they are also brilliantly written and are fast becoming new and treasured friends of mine. Alberto (because I'm on intimate terms with him now, don't you know) has a 30,000-volume library of his own at his home in a 15th century presbytery in France, built in the grounds and adjoining the house, yet completely separate from it. Naturally, I'm incredibly jealous, not just of the library or the number of books in his guardianship (because after all, you never really 'own' a book; you befriend and take care of them for a while before eventually relinquishing custody) but because living in a 15th century presbytery in France sounds like heaven. I digress…again. Anyway, reading about his library and the libraries of others has made me yearn even more for a library of my own; somewhere the books in my keeping can live and breathe, where we can all find sanctuary and renew our friendships, as well as having plenty of room for new acquaintances to join us. The fact that I currently have neither the space to assemble such a library or my own home in which to attempt it (or the money such a project deserves, although I’m quite certain that any right-thinking judge that has to hear the case when my bank-robbing spree comes to an end would understand the reasons for it) is neither here nor there. Everyone has to have a dream, and this is mine.

Of course, taking all my beloved friends over to such a place would be quite an adventure. All my antique books would have to have special glass-fronted shelves to live in, to protect them from the atmosphere and the ravages of time, although they are still able to be read and are happy to be so employed. And in their company would be books on innumerable topics and themes; my crime psychology books would have to be close at hand (what is a library if it doesn’t have a forensic dissection of the mind of Ted Bundy, after all?), as would the books I loved as a child and have kept ever since (step forward Fancy Nancy, Ramona Quimby, Junk and Stargirl). Alice in Wonderland and her journey Through the Looking Glass will converse with Tim Burton’s Oyster Boy and Edward Gorey’s tragic Gashlycrumb Tinies. The fairy tales that I have loved all my life – Charles Perrault, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson and the grim Grimm brothers – are here, along with the poets whose words give voice to my own emotions. My ‘witchy’ books, both historical and less scholarly, must take their place, along with the art books that carry the images I only wish I was able to create. The comic and the serious will have their own space; Shakespeare will dally with the myths and legends of other countries and different times, and historical and sociological books on countless different subjects will be given homes. Then there are the novels of course, both ‘classic’ and ‘modern’; fantasy, chick-lit and anything and everything in between will line the shelves. Money being no object (this is a fantasy library, after all), there will be numerous editions of books from the Folio Society scattered throughout the room, and my antique book collection will no doubt continue to grow. There will be sacrifices, of course; to own a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays would be an absolute blessing in any library, but I’d be so terrified of damaging it that I’d never read it and what is the point of a book if you can’t make it live by reading? And, of course, there would be space for new friends to join the old, because when you’re a reader there are always new discoveries to make…

My Library may be a long way off its full realisation, but I cannot wallow in the valley of despair. I have a dream, a dream that is deeply rooted in the dream of all readers. I have a dream that one day my books will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed; that they will sit on the shelves of brotherhood and find their own oasis where they are judged not by the colour of their bindings but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day, one day, my books will be able to sing the words “free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Until then, I guess they'll have to stay where they are...

I Strop, Therefore I Am...

Bonjour blogverse!! Remember me? I appear to have been decidedly lax in writing my usual incoherent rambles recently - this is what I get for going on holiday and then going away for a long weekend; I get out of the habit of writing and then I can never find anything to say. It's vastly annoying.

Which brings me to...today's rant. I mean post. Whatever. Things that annoy, irritate and wind me up beyond belief. Please excuse the no doubt emo-ness of this entry, I'm ever hopeful that I'll stop being a mardy cow in the very near future and be back to my normal blog-shattering best. Or worst, depending on your point of view. It's very stressy at work at the moment with all this prostitution research (yes, I'm still doing it. The research, that is. Not...never mind). Just when I think I've cracked it, I find another sodding report to to read. Ho hum...

So, things that annoy me very muchly at present...

1) Some of the reports I'm having to read. When I was at university studying research methods and ethics and shiz, I was taught that although every researcher clearly has their own bias, opinions etc, a good researcher doesn't let them influence the actual work. Clearly some people never got the memo, and it's making it very difficult for me to actually read said reports because while they may have perfectly valid and useful info in them, I want to fling them across the room shrieking like a demented banshee.
2) Also on this theme...some of the men interviewed about their use of prostitutes are tools and make me despair for the future of the species. I've known a few arses before but some of these morons take the cake. And the guy who said that using prostitutes is like going to Tescos? You need therapy. Or sectioning. Either way, you must never be allowed near a supermarket...it's for the good of everyone involved.
3) People. Specifically people who antagonise, wind up, piss off and upset my friends or in any other way make their lives different from the warm love-hugs-and-sunshine vibes I would wish for them. You've seen the Incredible Hulk, right? You know what happens when he gets angry? Ok, now look at my profile picture and imagine me green and muscly. You will not know what hit you when I'm finished with you...
4) Footballers who are completely unable to sing their national anthem. Ok, so 'God Save The Queen' might not be the most stirring of anthems (that would be Italy) but it's ours and anyone lucky enough to represent their country at the highest level should at least have the decency to mouth the words at the very least. If I was a top-class footballer (unlikely, I know, but stick with me) I would be so thrilled to get the chance to represent my country that I would sing the whole of God Save The Queen from start to finish and be bloody proud and honoured to do so. The rest of you overpaid prima-donna's can sod off.
5) Car and perfume adverts. Just tell me if I can drive the car from A to B and if the perfume is vaguely nice rather than all this stupid posturing and flouncing about. I mean really - the new Opium ad is just pointless.
6) My body. It is officially crap and I want a new one. Preferably one that doesn't break down every five minutes. Is that too much to ask for?

However...all is not doom-and-gloom in the world of the Kady-cat at the moment. I have discovered that I am a song! Several songs, actually, and I'm not talking about the ones that use my real name. (Although Ben Fold Five's 'Kate' is just...well, there are no words). But for those of you who first knew me from my slightly manic posts on the Nightwish forum, you will know that in some corners of the web I go by the name Nocturna (I shall not reveal my others - self-preservation and all that). Thanks to a combination of boredom, frustration and curiosity, as I picked the name seemingly at random only because I am a bit of a 'creature of the night', I went googling for songs about my nom de plume, and I have to say I like what I found. There are a lot of songs that are 'Nocturna Something' or 'Something Nocturna', so I guess that's cheating a little bit, but it still counts as far as I'm concerned. So, songs about moi...

Therion - Via Nocturna. It's all about following Nocturna and Luna to midnight revels - so I am the moon and the key to the kingdom. Obviously.



Old Man's Child - Hominis Nocturna. This is a grower...never heard of them but hey, new is good.



Moonspell - Nocturna. Ah, Moonspell...I've been converted to you.



Anabantha - Nocturna. Ok, I have never heard of this Mexican band until now and I sprechen pas de Spanish, but this song is fab. And it has a FF8 video - what's not to love?!?!



So there you go. Nocturna is, in fact, awesome...

Strictly Holidays...

I have finally recovered from the arduous journey home from the North (and the horrendous feeling of going back to work after a holiday *sigh*) and shall return to blogging with a vengeance!

So yes, Scotland...well, what I can say about it? It was, as last year, absolutely beautiful - and with no sudden detours to A&E on the way home, it was also a bit better than last year!! We started in Edinburgh for a day and a half, which was lovely apart from the fact that it peed down with rain and I spent far too much money (ignore this bit please, Mothership), and I've realised that it's a gorgeous city, even in the grey gloom. Then we headed for a three-day coach tour of the Highlands and Islands, based at Portree in the Isle of Skye...It. Was. Fab. The weather was brilliant, the sceneery beautiful and if I rob a bank, I'm moving to Skye. I would upload piccies but Blogger appears to be playing silly wotsits and won't let me. They are on Facebook, though, if you want to see my half-arsed attempts with a camera...

Also in the news...Strictly is back on and suddenly the weekends are looking vaguely hilarious again. Gods, I lead such a sad and tragic life...sadly for me, Gavin Henson did reasonably well, but the new English and Russian professionals are seriously sexy and there promises to be much entertainment between now and Christmas. Ann Widdecome and Anton DuBeke? Love it! If I was any kind of a betting woman, which I'm not, I'd put money on them going quite far...