If I used all of my pissed off energy right now, I’d make my suitcase trot after me without needing a touch. I’d open a ferris wheel at a fun fair and only charge people in bad jokes and bad dance moves. I’d load up my Macbook with hours and hours of battery and watch 12 Audrey Tatou films and call all of my Skype contacts and blog in the best detail ever written. If I could use all of my pissed off energy right now, I’d send a thousand mechanic birds, their beaks snapping in savage elation, tearing like darts into that man, that fucking twat of a man, who has just made me miss my train. Shit.
It’s 4:30am.
I’m freezing. I’m hungry. I am 100% knackered. I stagger to the desk, turn off my alarm and stumble like a zombie to the office. From there I ring the taxi firm, book my cab for 5am and then grumbling, make my way back to the infirmary.
Back inside, I grope about for my clothes on the floor, get dressed and quietly start packing away the remainder of my things. Anthony and Rickey don’t even stir as I gather my bedding and take my suitcase to the drive. I wake them up for a final goodbye- both have already told me that they won’t remember the farewell when they actually wake up- advise them to stay away from men with guns in New York and enjoy groggy hugs before slipping outside into the darkness.
I wait by the house, my eyes harassed by weariness. I wait under the light where I can see the whole camp looming up at me from the dark. I wait. I wait. I wait.
By 5:04am, I know something’s up. I dash inside and call the firm.
‘He came to pick you up and you weren’t there!’
‘I’ve been stood here for 10 minutes’.
‘He waited by the road, you weren’t there, so he left’.
‘Well I’m not by the road, I’m by the house’.
I try to keep my cool.
‘It’s 5 o’clock in the morning- do you expect me to walk down a pitch black drive to the road?’
‘It’s not my problem’.
‘Yes it is. I have a train to catch in ten minutes and I need a taxi now’.
‘Ah, yes, yes. I’ll send one back now’.
The panic starts to set in. My train leaves Middletown station at 5:18am. It is never late, it is always on time and it is coming in 12 minutes.
I stand waiting and the minutes just spew away- they’re on my hands, they’re on the pavement, they’re all over my luggage and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. By 5:09am, my hands start to sweat, my heart starts to thump and the fury is building in my head. I grab my suitcase and hoist it behind me. There is no way in hell that I’m walking down that dark drive and the playground is my next safest bet.
My suitcase feels like I’ve packed up all the stones from the creek. I’m tearing past the monkey bars thinking ‘please don’t come and drive past me, please don’t come now’. As I heave my case up the hill to the road, the car lights from the road glare down at me and I think ‘this is not cool. I’m a girl, standing on the side of an empty road in the middle of the night with thousands of pounds of goods on her and I’ve got 7 minutes to get to a train station.’
At 5:12am, my phone is weeping from the international infliction and I’m weeping hot, angry tears to the man at the taxi firm.
‘The man came for you, it’s not my fault you were not there’.
I feel like screaming in the phone.
‘I’ve been here for over 20 minutes, my train leaves in 5 and I’ve got a flight to catch. I need a taxi right now’.
‘He will be there soon, I guess’.
I wish phones would let you squeeze your hands through the receiver and punch the person on the other end. I want to kick his eyes out.
The man’s still blabbering on when I see it, the taxi rolls open and I hang up the phone, throw my suitcase in the backseat and jump in the front and shout-
‘Train station, now!’
‘When’s your train?’
‘5:18’.
‘It’s 5:14! Shit!’
We’re flying down the road, we dodging traffic; we are definitely and most certainly speeding. The driver cuts two red lights and swerves past Sam’s Club. It’s 5:17 and I know we’re close. He pelts through the car park, turns at the stop and shouts ‘can you see it?’ and I look down at the station and it’s there. The train is there. He urges the car forward as my heart is having spasms. Half of me is saying ‘it’s here, it’s here, it’s okay, it’s here’ and the other half of me is saying ‘it’s about to leave, it’s about to leave, it’s about to bloody leave’. As we screech to a halt, I look up and the train starts to stir-
‘No, no no-'
My hand flies to the handle, I throw it back, I sling myself forward and as I feel the protest of stone against my feet, I see it moving. It’s shitting moving. I flail my arms in the air, I’m getting closer, they’ve got to see me, please stop! I catch the eye of the train warden by the hatch- he looks back at me- I scream ‘STOP!’- he looks down the train- I scream ‘STOP!’ again and-
The train keeps moving.
It keeps moving.
It keeps moving.
I let my hands fall to my head and I’m speechless. I’m angry and I’m crying. I’m shocked and I’m livid. I’m freezing, I’m hungry and I am 100% knackered.
The taxi driver doesn’t know what to do or say as I just stand there, despising the train, loathing the man and at a complete loss. Finally, when the train has disappeared, I ask-
‘How much does it cost to drive to Newark Airport?’
‘About $150’.
‘Shit’.
I run to the schedule.
‘Can we catch it up at Suffern?’
‘We can sure try’.
‘How much is that going to cost me?’
‘About $75’.
I curse.
‘Fine. Let’s go’.
We run back to the car and again we’re racing, chasing the train down. As I sit in the passenger seat the radio goes and that man, that imbecilic twat of a man, calls-
‘Did she get there?'
‘No, she just missed it and now can’t get to her flight on time’.
‘It’s her own fault. I sent someone to her. She didn’t tell me she had a train to catch’.
I want to reach out and rip the radio out of its socket. I want to bash it into the dashboard. I want to scream curse words down the line, push my hands through the receiver and throttle him.
I sit in silence.
The driver calls him a dick and I laugh.
‘That, my friend, is an understatement’.
Ten minutes later, the driver radios for the train schedule and thinks he can make it to Harriman before the train does. We zig along the intersection and zag through the cars on the highway. At 5:46 we arrive at Harriman, a cool 4 minutes before the train. I tug my luggage out of the back seat- there’s grass everywhere- and I thank the man profusely before handing him over a crisp fifty. Fifty dollars gone in 25 petrol minutes.
I’ve enough time to buy my ticket and as I grapple it from the machine, the train pulls in. I drag my case on behind me and collapse into a seat. I catch my reflection in the window and I look terrible. I’m pale, my hair’s everywhere and there are large bags etched into my skin like sallow smudges of my frazzled eyes but alas, I’m here and that’s what counts.
I’m now sat in McDonalds in Newark Airport. I’m no longer pissed off. I’m no longer cold. I’m no longer hungry but good god I’m tired. The irony here is that it’s now 8:16am and I don’t even fly until 11:40. If I were to have got the 7:52am train, I would have just missed my check in. Now, I’m wishing more than anything that I would have taken that chance. If I had, right now I’d be sat on the train with Rickey and Anthony laughing about everything that’s happened this summer.
However, I’m sat here with my large Sprite and I’m content. I’m happy because I successfully finished camp without killing any children. I’m thankful for all the wonderful people that I’ve met through the course of these 9 weeks. I’m proud to have looked over many brilliant kids who have probably taught me more than I’ve taught them.
I don’t like getting sentimental but if I don’t reflect now, I fear I never will. So here we have it, the time has come! I tilt my hat and raise my Sprite to you and cheer ‘Braeside Camp! For all the running, the swinging, the moaning, the whinging, the cray fishing, the feather sticking, the gossiping, the cursing, the yellow t-shirt wearing, the ‘sneaker’ throwing, the carb eating, the chocolate craving, the laughing, the crying, the singing, the dancing, the winning, the losing, the kids and the counsellors- I bloody salute you all! You’ve done my summer good and proud and for that, I’ll never forget’.
Now down that drink and get some shuteye, for another disorganised adventure awaits! Oh Atlanta, sweet Atlanta! My beautiful second home where the peaches are peachy and the cobbler is gobblin’ good. It's 5 more days until ol' Blight calls and then my friends, this blog will be over and my 'real life' will begin. Am I ready for it? Probably not- so I'll just have to bloody enjoy my last few days of frolicking about in this fantasy land and take each day as it goes.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Wednesday 18th August 2010
I am such a dickhead.
There have been many points in my life where I have brandished myself with such a term (polishing a lit fireplace, walking around Wrexham with my dress tucked into my bag, asking a boy ‘so, ever had any diseases?’ on a date…) but this one takes the ticket. Literally.
Since the end of camp is rapidly approaching (can I get a 2 DAYS LEFT hoo hoo?), I thought it might be a good idea to check my flight to Atlanta. I logged onto my gmail, searched lastminute and up pinged the shiny ‘Here is your confirmation of spending all of your student loan on the first day that you got it, you massive nob’. I scrolled down, found what I was looking for and started to chuckle. For days I’ve been whinging about having to get the 5:18am train to catch my flight and lookey here, my flight is a good hour and a half later than I thought. Where on earth I got the time 10:20am from is unbeknown to me.
I’m about to click off the page when my page scrolls down and my eyes gloss over my flight home. It reads all the normal, boring stuff:
Atlanta Hartsfield Intl Apt (ATL) to Manchester International Apt (MAN)
Airline: DELTA (DL)
Class: ECONOMY
Departing: 19:35 Wed 25 Aug 2010
Arriving: 08:45 Thu 26 Aug 2010 Next day arrival
I smile at the information, hit the red ‘x’ just as I realise- wait. The 26th August? Aren’t I flying home the Friday? I smack my mouse pad against my browser icon and whilst waiting for it to load, I’m already thinking ‘lastminute are such idiots! Why have they got my flight wrong?’ By the time I’ve reloaded the email, I know that I’m the idiot. The great bumbling idiot that has managed to go for 2, nay 3 months, thinking she was flying home on Friday 28th August. Not only this, this idiotic ignoramus has made plans to see, meet, celebrate and socialise with people when she is not actually in the country. This perfect twit has also got a lift sorted for Saturday morning, noted ‘I’ll be back in the country on 28th’ on the bottom of job applications and made arrival plans at home on the night of her believed return. All of this is complete poppycock. All of this is just a figment of her imagination.
Once the initial shock and the ‘shitting hell, Chelsea’ took over, a niggle ruptured within me and my mouth let a giggle slip. Within seconds, I was sat on the couch roaring like a laughing gas addict. I don’t even want to start to wonder what they thought I was doing in the office next door but all I could do was laugh, think ‘Chelsea, you plonker’ and laugh some more.
Perhaps I should have been dwelling on the fact that 2 days of visiting friends in Atlanta have been swiped from beneath me, but in all truth, all I could think was ‘this time in a week, I’ll be on a plane, freezing to death with their rampant air con whilst I watch some syrupy love story that makes me weep into a Belgian man’s armpit who in the end asks me to move because his wife is getting jealous, and old women with mouths daubed with red lipstick will be trotting up and down the aisle in what seems like a how-many-times-can-you-say-y’all-to-the-passengers-without-one-stabbing-you competition’ and I thought 'ah, by gum, I cannot bloody wait'.
There have been many points in my life where I have brandished myself with such a term (polishing a lit fireplace, walking around Wrexham with my dress tucked into my bag, asking a boy ‘so, ever had any diseases?’ on a date…) but this one takes the ticket. Literally.
Since the end of camp is rapidly approaching (can I get a 2 DAYS LEFT hoo hoo?), I thought it might be a good idea to check my flight to Atlanta. I logged onto my gmail, searched lastminute and up pinged the shiny ‘Here is your confirmation of spending all of your student loan on the first day that you got it, you massive nob’. I scrolled down, found what I was looking for and started to chuckle. For days I’ve been whinging about having to get the 5:18am train to catch my flight and lookey here, my flight is a good hour and a half later than I thought. Where on earth I got the time 10:20am from is unbeknown to me.
I’m about to click off the page when my page scrolls down and my eyes gloss over my flight home. It reads all the normal, boring stuff:
Atlanta Hartsfield Intl Apt (ATL) to Manchester International Apt (MAN)
Airline: DELTA (DL)
Class: ECONOMY
Departing: 19:35 Wed 25 Aug 2010
Arriving: 08:45 Thu 26 Aug 2010 Next day arrival
I smile at the information, hit the red ‘x’ just as I realise- wait. The 26th August? Aren’t I flying home the Friday? I smack my mouse pad against my browser icon and whilst waiting for it to load, I’m already thinking ‘lastminute are such idiots! Why have they got my flight wrong?’ By the time I’ve reloaded the email, I know that I’m the idiot. The great bumbling idiot that has managed to go for 2, nay 3 months, thinking she was flying home on Friday 28th August. Not only this, this idiotic ignoramus has made plans to see, meet, celebrate and socialise with people when she is not actually in the country. This perfect twit has also got a lift sorted for Saturday morning, noted ‘I’ll be back in the country on 28th’ on the bottom of job applications and made arrival plans at home on the night of her believed return. All of this is complete poppycock. All of this is just a figment of her imagination.
Once the initial shock and the ‘shitting hell, Chelsea’ took over, a niggle ruptured within me and my mouth let a giggle slip. Within seconds, I was sat on the couch roaring like a laughing gas addict. I don’t even want to start to wonder what they thought I was doing in the office next door but all I could do was laugh, think ‘Chelsea, you plonker’ and laugh some more.
Perhaps I should have been dwelling on the fact that 2 days of visiting friends in Atlanta have been swiped from beneath me, but in all truth, all I could think was ‘this time in a week, I’ll be on a plane, freezing to death with their rampant air con whilst I watch some syrupy love story that makes me weep into a Belgian man’s armpit who in the end asks me to move because his wife is getting jealous, and old women with mouths daubed with red lipstick will be trotting up and down the aisle in what seems like a how-many-times-can-you-say-y’all-to-the-passengers-without-one-stabbing-you competition’ and I thought 'ah, by gum, I cannot bloody wait'.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Sunday 15th August 2010
Don’t you love those times when you laugh so hard that you can’t breathe, tears are spluttering down your cheeks and you clutch your side as a furious tickle seizes your body? Well imagine being riddled with that whilst you’re supposed to be getting 9 young girls to be silent. There Shamia (my new co-counsellor) and I were, our shoulders jiggling up and down whilst we plastered shaking fingers against our mouths and through our howling called ‘sh-sh-sh-shhh gi-girlsssss, got to be qui-ahhahaha-ett’. To make it worse, we were laughing at one of those times that not even the greatest raconteur could emulate and display it’s farcical nature. But hush, hush, yes I’ll give it a bash. I know you’re itching to know so I’ll just try and replicate it as best as I can.
We were laughing at the smallest, cutest boy on camp getting enthusiastically high fived by one of our girls after a performance. The boy behind him sees this hero worship and the excitement dazzles in his eyes, his hand outstretches in eager anticipation, itching to collide hands with the girl and receive his commendation. He gets closer, the girls hand lies extended, beckoning him to come closer and as he brings his hand down with a mighty force, the girl swiftly turns away taking her hand with her, leaving the boy to pelt past her and slap the air with shame.
See, I told you it wasn’t funny. But in that moment, in that quick fleeting wonderfully hilarious moment, it was the funniest thing I’d seen in the whole wide world. The oblivious girl, the disappointed boy, the way he continued to trot with his arm held out for a few seconds after. It was all magic.
So it’s Sunday. SUNDAY. I’ve been counting down the days with my 12 pack of coke cans. This should mean that I have a cool 5 left yet alas, as I poked my head into the fridge yesterday; I was destroyed to find that they’d all gone. Now, I need to point out that when I say ‘destroyed’, I do mean that put-in-a-bin, carted-off-by-bin-men, squished-mashed-and-crushed-into-a-pulp kind of destroyed. I would have instantly hit the floor, called out a star-wars worthy ‘noooooo’ and grappled the legs of my nearest counsellor if the floor hadn’t been encrusted with bits of egg and tomato sauce. Yum.
However, I have received news from afar that Donna of the highest order of Dick, has sent me a package of Galaxy, KitKat Chunkies and posh lollies from the Grosvenor Garden Centre- what an absolute babe! No sugar crave can be better quelled than by the delicious British nibbles. How I laugh when the kids state that ‘Hersheys is the best, yo’ (they really don’t speak like that). I have a catastrophic fit every time and think ‘ah, you deprived children! If only you knew!’
Speaking of what do they know, the answer is- not a lot. Now, I realise that this may seem harsh but as a lady who gained a colossal 69 in one of her essays in first year (that’s right, brain kapow) I most certainly have done my research, anyalsed my points and mapped them out accordingly for you to make up your own mind also.
At siesta, the need to entertain set in, so Shamia and I devised a general knowledge quiz to test their agile young minds. With the prize of sweets, the stakes were high and they were all willing to prove themselves. After 7 questions, we collected in their papers and for the next 7 minutes, Shamia and I laughed. Oh how we laughed. I shall share just a few of the beautiful answers we received:
Q: What is the capital of Spain?
A: 2 girls said: Mexico, 2 girls said: China and one said: England
Q: What gets wetter the more you dry?
A: Your pee
(Actual answer for you curious folk: a towel)
Q: What 4 countries make up the United Kingdom?
Now, not one person got this completely right. Only 2 mentioned Wales, which made me die a little inside, but here were the vast array of other answers that we attained:
A: Brazil, Spain, France, Asia, Africa, Australia, USA
USA?!?!? YOU THINK YOUR OWN COUNTRY IS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM?! Bobl bach!!!
So, after this, you think I would have stopped. You think I would have called it quits and sent my shaking head elsewhere to pry on other things. Yet alas, my desire to distil some knowledge, some trickling of sense out of them provoked me to start yet another quiz at snack time as to decide who should get the bigger slices of cornbread. This is was I discovered:
Chelsea: When was the First World War?
Girl: 1987?
Chelsea: Badly not
Girl: 1992?
Chelsea: Bloody hell
Chelsea: Name a place that America has sent its troops in the past 5 years?
Girl: Oooh, oooh, oooh! I know!
Chelsea: Yes?
Girl: PARIS!
Chelsea: Who is the richest American woman?
Girl: The Queen of England!
The worst was when a girl could not tell me the date that the plane crashed into the twin towers. I was devastated. I was like- this is your country! This is your history! Why don’t you know your history?!
Apparently I haven’t got it the worst though. Anthony asked his kids when 9/11 was and they spent minutes going through all the months before they realised he’d given them the answer already.
Though perhaps I have ridiculed them enough, I shall end on a couple of things less topical that have made me chuckle.
Campers say the funniest things
Chelsea: So why did you like this boy?
Girl: He was super cute
Chelsea: Right… anything else?
Girl: Yeah, he had a nice smile
Chelsea: Yes, but anything else?
(Cottoning on) Girl: Oh… his rocking abs?
Counsellors say the funniest things:
Udi: Today is good. I’m relaxing, I’ve been in the shower and I’m watching my favourite programme, air crash investigation.
Bites to date
Piss off. This is a sensitive subject that I no longer wish to discuss.
We were laughing at the smallest, cutest boy on camp getting enthusiastically high fived by one of our girls after a performance. The boy behind him sees this hero worship and the excitement dazzles in his eyes, his hand outstretches in eager anticipation, itching to collide hands with the girl and receive his commendation. He gets closer, the girls hand lies extended, beckoning him to come closer and as he brings his hand down with a mighty force, the girl swiftly turns away taking her hand with her, leaving the boy to pelt past her and slap the air with shame.
See, I told you it wasn’t funny. But in that moment, in that quick fleeting wonderfully hilarious moment, it was the funniest thing I’d seen in the whole wide world. The oblivious girl, the disappointed boy, the way he continued to trot with his arm held out for a few seconds after. It was all magic.
So it’s Sunday. SUNDAY. I’ve been counting down the days with my 12 pack of coke cans. This should mean that I have a cool 5 left yet alas, as I poked my head into the fridge yesterday; I was destroyed to find that they’d all gone. Now, I need to point out that when I say ‘destroyed’, I do mean that put-in-a-bin, carted-off-by-bin-men, squished-mashed-and-crushed-into-a-pulp kind of destroyed. I would have instantly hit the floor, called out a star-wars worthy ‘noooooo’ and grappled the legs of my nearest counsellor if the floor hadn’t been encrusted with bits of egg and tomato sauce. Yum.
However, I have received news from afar that Donna of the highest order of Dick, has sent me a package of Galaxy, KitKat Chunkies and posh lollies from the Grosvenor Garden Centre- what an absolute babe! No sugar crave can be better quelled than by the delicious British nibbles. How I laugh when the kids state that ‘Hersheys is the best, yo’ (they really don’t speak like that). I have a catastrophic fit every time and think ‘ah, you deprived children! If only you knew!’
Speaking of what do they know, the answer is- not a lot. Now, I realise that this may seem harsh but as a lady who gained a colossal 69 in one of her essays in first year (that’s right, brain kapow) I most certainly have done my research, anyalsed my points and mapped them out accordingly for you to make up your own mind also.
At siesta, the need to entertain set in, so Shamia and I devised a general knowledge quiz to test their agile young minds. With the prize of sweets, the stakes were high and they were all willing to prove themselves. After 7 questions, we collected in their papers and for the next 7 minutes, Shamia and I laughed. Oh how we laughed. I shall share just a few of the beautiful answers we received:
Q: What is the capital of Spain?
A: 2 girls said: Mexico, 2 girls said: China and one said: England
Q: What gets wetter the more you dry?
A: Your pee
(Actual answer for you curious folk: a towel)
Q: What 4 countries make up the United Kingdom?
Now, not one person got this completely right. Only 2 mentioned Wales, which made me die a little inside, but here were the vast array of other answers that we attained:
A: Brazil, Spain, France, Asia, Africa, Australia, USA
USA?!?!? YOU THINK YOUR OWN COUNTRY IS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM?! Bobl bach!!!
So, after this, you think I would have stopped. You think I would have called it quits and sent my shaking head elsewhere to pry on other things. Yet alas, my desire to distil some knowledge, some trickling of sense out of them provoked me to start yet another quiz at snack time as to decide who should get the bigger slices of cornbread. This is was I discovered:
Chelsea: When was the First World War?
Girl: 1987?
Chelsea: Badly not
Girl: 1992?
Chelsea: Bloody hell
Chelsea: Name a place that America has sent its troops in the past 5 years?
Girl: Oooh, oooh, oooh! I know!
Chelsea: Yes?
Girl: PARIS!
Chelsea: Who is the richest American woman?
Girl: The Queen of England!
The worst was when a girl could not tell me the date that the plane crashed into the twin towers. I was devastated. I was like- this is your country! This is your history! Why don’t you know your history?!
Apparently I haven’t got it the worst though. Anthony asked his kids when 9/11 was and they spent minutes going through all the months before they realised he’d given them the answer already.
Though perhaps I have ridiculed them enough, I shall end on a couple of things less topical that have made me chuckle.
Campers say the funniest things
Chelsea: So why did you like this boy?
Girl: He was super cute
Chelsea: Right… anything else?
Girl: Yeah, he had a nice smile
Chelsea: Yes, but anything else?
(Cottoning on) Girl: Oh… his rocking abs?
Counsellors say the funniest things:
Udi: Today is good. I’m relaxing, I’ve been in the shower and I’m watching my favourite programme, air crash investigation.
Bites to date
Piss off. This is a sensitive subject that I no longer wish to discuss.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Sunday 8th August 2010
After executing a nimble dance routine at my year 8 pantomime, I was very surprised to hear my Mum and Dad (more commonly known to me as Jon and Donna) exclaiming with tender relief that I could ‘actually dance a little bit’. I enquired further and there they delved into my childhood, stories down pouring on me as if I’d unlocked a secret vault in a secret bank of a secret order. Stories about scabs upon scabs, knees crumpling under my own weight and my lack of confidence to do anything more than peek out behind my Mum and grumble a few angsty words of infantile stubbornness. Donna even went as far to say ‘you were the most uncoordinated child we’d ever seen. We really did worry about you for a while, Chels’ which made me analyse my entire mobile life in a flash and then I realised- bloody hell, they’re right.
I am quite possibly one of the clumsiest, most ligamently challenged people out there. Take day two of me working in a restaurant for instance. I was just hurrying some glasses of water to a table when a child scurried in front, so I swerved in what I probably though was a graceful arch yet seconds later, water was cascading down onto the child leaving him drowned in my maladroit mess. No amount of scrabbling to the floor with paper towels or apologising profusely could ever etch the ‘at least we’ll get a cheaper meal’ drones that boomed from the parents or the fact that all my fellow workers didn’t know me well enough to laugh at me, so instead pitied the inept, young girl that knelt basking in her sea of embarrassment.
I was recently asked to help a friend in acting out a mock interview with a celebrity and as I watched the video back, I winced as my elbows threw awkward angles, my hand swung sluggishly by my side and my whole demeanour oozed ‘I am not in the slightest bit comfortable right now’. In my head, this girl named Chelsea carries herself with- I certainly wouldn’t go as far to say grace- but perhaps a lazy ease that is warm, is inviting, is saying ‘I’m not at all proper but how do you do?’ Instead, I have realised that this is not the case. I am a walking dysfunction.
You may be starting to wonder the point of this, or how this has anything to do with camp. Have I sacked that all in? Have I hung my mosquito netting up for good? Well, not at all, my friends. This weekend I went back to Emma’s with Rickey, Anthony and Udi. This weekend I enjoyed swirling feverish coffee around my mouth, tracing my fingers down the binds of spry, new books and wandering around streets stirred with the sultry graces of summer. This weekend I went roller-skating.
Bam.
When the others announced their preference to the evening’s activity, I was more than keen. An image rekindled in my mind of rollerblading on my small patio back in Bangor-On-Dee and I thought- 10 years down the line; surely I can’t have lost it. As we arrived at ‘Roller Magic’, my confidence started to smart and by the time we’d paid our $8, laced the roller skates to our feet I was thinking ‘what in the bloody hell were you thinking, Chelsea’. These were not blades that snapped like roulette wheels around your feet. These were skates that felt like jittery platforms looming below me. When I asked Anthony how I stopped in them, he replied ‘you don’t.’ ‘Sweet Jesus’ I thought. ‘I am actually going to die’.
On the dance floor I was amazed to see people execute dancing that I’d call impressive in ballet pumps. They sashayed left and right, pivoted all around before zipping before me in a dash. I would have been quite content with just skating around like a cat in high heels had it not been for the fact that my companions were all more than capable of showing off. Emma swiped the dance floor with her ‘I brought them from home’ blades, Anthony twirled onto the back of his skates and Rickey, well, Rickey is an entirely different story.
Rickey, though most certainly not of the awkward, clumsy kind, was absolutely the most entertaining thing I have ever seen in my human life with my human eyes. Any dance move that is brandished as ridiculous on a normal dance floor, he tried. He twisted, he spun, he dived. He fell, he fell, he fell. There was one point where a group of teenagers on the side could be heard shrieking in amusement at his outlandish moves but I applauded them with my laughter. I was enthralled by his devotion to doing whatever the hell he wanted and I commended him for it greatly.
By the end of the evening, I’d accomplished skating a perfect circle around the hall with only one significant fall. I even tried a little shakey shakey disco action but this required me to stop skating and therefore left me terrified to restart again.
I’m afraid I’ll never be a fluid skater, a light-footed dancer or even a mediocre waitress but hey, at least I tried. Plus, you never know with these things. Things come in waves of fads all the time. Flared jeans, skinny jeans. Big boobs, small boobs. Sports cars, super-destructing the environment cars. Perhaps the age of the awkward is just leering in the future? Perhaps we’re on the cusp of the new vogue, the era of the cumbersome coots that is I? Perhaps one day when I slip and nearly drown a small boy with 4 pints of water I’ll get cheered and applauded and my picture will be put in a museum?
Unrealistic? Perhaps. But a girl can always dream.
I am quite possibly one of the clumsiest, most ligamently challenged people out there. Take day two of me working in a restaurant for instance. I was just hurrying some glasses of water to a table when a child scurried in front, so I swerved in what I probably though was a graceful arch yet seconds later, water was cascading down onto the child leaving him drowned in my maladroit mess. No amount of scrabbling to the floor with paper towels or apologising profusely could ever etch the ‘at least we’ll get a cheaper meal’ drones that boomed from the parents or the fact that all my fellow workers didn’t know me well enough to laugh at me, so instead pitied the inept, young girl that knelt basking in her sea of embarrassment.
I was recently asked to help a friend in acting out a mock interview with a celebrity and as I watched the video back, I winced as my elbows threw awkward angles, my hand swung sluggishly by my side and my whole demeanour oozed ‘I am not in the slightest bit comfortable right now’. In my head, this girl named Chelsea carries herself with- I certainly wouldn’t go as far to say grace- but perhaps a lazy ease that is warm, is inviting, is saying ‘I’m not at all proper but how do you do?’ Instead, I have realised that this is not the case. I am a walking dysfunction.
You may be starting to wonder the point of this, or how this has anything to do with camp. Have I sacked that all in? Have I hung my mosquito netting up for good? Well, not at all, my friends. This weekend I went back to Emma’s with Rickey, Anthony and Udi. This weekend I enjoyed swirling feverish coffee around my mouth, tracing my fingers down the binds of spry, new books and wandering around streets stirred with the sultry graces of summer. This weekend I went roller-skating.
Bam.
When the others announced their preference to the evening’s activity, I was more than keen. An image rekindled in my mind of rollerblading on my small patio back in Bangor-On-Dee and I thought- 10 years down the line; surely I can’t have lost it. As we arrived at ‘Roller Magic’, my confidence started to smart and by the time we’d paid our $8, laced the roller skates to our feet I was thinking ‘what in the bloody hell were you thinking, Chelsea’. These were not blades that snapped like roulette wheels around your feet. These were skates that felt like jittery platforms looming below me. When I asked Anthony how I stopped in them, he replied ‘you don’t.’ ‘Sweet Jesus’ I thought. ‘I am actually going to die’.
On the dance floor I was amazed to see people execute dancing that I’d call impressive in ballet pumps. They sashayed left and right, pivoted all around before zipping before me in a dash. I would have been quite content with just skating around like a cat in high heels had it not been for the fact that my companions were all more than capable of showing off. Emma swiped the dance floor with her ‘I brought them from home’ blades, Anthony twirled onto the back of his skates and Rickey, well, Rickey is an entirely different story.
Rickey, though most certainly not of the awkward, clumsy kind, was absolutely the most entertaining thing I have ever seen in my human life with my human eyes. Any dance move that is brandished as ridiculous on a normal dance floor, he tried. He twisted, he spun, he dived. He fell, he fell, he fell. There was one point where a group of teenagers on the side could be heard shrieking in amusement at his outlandish moves but I applauded them with my laughter. I was enthralled by his devotion to doing whatever the hell he wanted and I commended him for it greatly.
By the end of the evening, I’d accomplished skating a perfect circle around the hall with only one significant fall. I even tried a little shakey shakey disco action but this required me to stop skating and therefore left me terrified to restart again.
I’m afraid I’ll never be a fluid skater, a light-footed dancer or even a mediocre waitress but hey, at least I tried. Plus, you never know with these things. Things come in waves of fads all the time. Flared jeans, skinny jeans. Big boobs, small boobs. Sports cars, super-destructing the environment cars. Perhaps the age of the awkward is just leering in the future? Perhaps we’re on the cusp of the new vogue, the era of the cumbersome coots that is I? Perhaps one day when I slip and nearly drown a small boy with 4 pints of water I’ll get cheered and applauded and my picture will be put in a museum?
Unrealistic? Perhaps. But a girl can always dream.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Thursday 5th August 2010
Why on earth did those berks from the Father’s Union climb onto a roof, clad in batman outfits and heckle ‘let us see our kiddie winkles!’ I have been a single Dad for 3 days now and let me tell you, I am in no rush to scramble up to the top of my shack with my bikini over my clothes and declare my overwhelming love for my little’uns.
Emma, my co-counsellor and ‘Mum’ of the cabin- why I’ve been regarded as the Dad every session, I will never know- left on Tuesday due to being ill and needing some home comforts. I felt like gripping her ankles and saying ‘take me! I’m ill too! I’ve got extreme childphobiaitis!’ but alas, here I am with my squabble of girls.
One of the toughest things I’ve found is waking up. As the alarm goes off at 7:30am each evening, I now have the overbearing knowledge that if I don’t get up, no one does. Also, I fear my ‘wake up’ methods aren’t as PC as Emmas. A girl lay in bed yesterday refusing to move so I hoisted myself up and started bouncing on the bottom of her bed singing ‘Wake up it’s a beautiful morning’ in a delightful falsetto voice. Now this may sound like a jovial wake up call to you but I think it’s worth mentioning how crap these beds are, they’re like prison cots. I could hear the springs cursing me as I dug my feet into the fabric and tugged the bed sheet up with my toes. In fact, I almost started singing a song that my Mum used to sing to get me out of bed before I realised that this would be a sincere acclimation of becoming her- I’ve already found myself saying things that she used to say to me like:
Girl: She hit me with her fork!
“That’s nice.”
Girl: I’m boreeeeeeeeeeeeed
“Well do you know what else is boring? YOUR WHINGING.”
and that old nugget: “If you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say it at all!”
I haven’t quite made it onto pretending I don’t know the kids and asking if they’ve lost their parents which Mrs. Dick used to do to my youngest sister in Tesco all the time. However, I still have session four to go and this blog needs some spice.
Nevertheless, as I bounced up and down on the bed, the girl suddenly flung herself from her blankets and did two military style rolls across the floor. ‘Amazing!’ I first thought ‘What a career in stunts this girl has!’ until I saw her face scowling at me from the lower rungs of the next bed. ‘Look what you made me do’ she grumpily asserted which made me laugh even more. This girl, each and every morning, hurls herself from her bed and commits someone to the dastardly deed. I put my hands up in a solemn salute and yelped ‘twas not me Sir but by gum, what splendid rolling that was if I ever did see it’. She cracked a smile and I thought ‘phew. Charges diverted. Good word Sergeant Little Dick’.
However, despite all my hardships I’ve had a right old laugh as well. At the closing camp fire this evening I decided to treat the audience to a bit of old Blighty and after watching my co-counsellors give out certificates, I strutted up to the front with my scarf draped across my shoulders and knighted every single one of my girls with a twig and a red paper crown. Though at first a few were embarrassed due to their boyfriends sat in the pews (which is ridiculous, all boys love princesses. Disney taught us all that from a young age) by the time we went for our celebratory Papa John's pizza they al had them perching on their heads at jaunty angles. I was properly proud.
Tomorrow I am off to Emma's house again but this time with Anthony, Rickey and Udi in lieu. I am massively looking forward having some time to chill out and not spend money before waddling back for my LAST SESSION OF CAMP! Time flies when you're eating pies, eh?
Emma, my co-counsellor and ‘Mum’ of the cabin- why I’ve been regarded as the Dad every session, I will never know- left on Tuesday due to being ill and needing some home comforts. I felt like gripping her ankles and saying ‘take me! I’m ill too! I’ve got extreme childphobiaitis!’ but alas, here I am with my squabble of girls.
One of the toughest things I’ve found is waking up. As the alarm goes off at 7:30am each evening, I now have the overbearing knowledge that if I don’t get up, no one does. Also, I fear my ‘wake up’ methods aren’t as PC as Emmas. A girl lay in bed yesterday refusing to move so I hoisted myself up and started bouncing on the bottom of her bed singing ‘Wake up it’s a beautiful morning’ in a delightful falsetto voice. Now this may sound like a jovial wake up call to you but I think it’s worth mentioning how crap these beds are, they’re like prison cots. I could hear the springs cursing me as I dug my feet into the fabric and tugged the bed sheet up with my toes. In fact, I almost started singing a song that my Mum used to sing to get me out of bed before I realised that this would be a sincere acclimation of becoming her- I’ve already found myself saying things that she used to say to me like:
Girl: She hit me with her fork!
“That’s nice.”
Girl: I’m boreeeeeeeeeeeeed
“Well do you know what else is boring? YOUR WHINGING.”
and that old nugget: “If you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say it at all!”
I haven’t quite made it onto pretending I don’t know the kids and asking if they’ve lost their parents which Mrs. Dick used to do to my youngest sister in Tesco all the time. However, I still have session four to go and this blog needs some spice.
Nevertheless, as I bounced up and down on the bed, the girl suddenly flung herself from her blankets and did two military style rolls across the floor. ‘Amazing!’ I first thought ‘What a career in stunts this girl has!’ until I saw her face scowling at me from the lower rungs of the next bed. ‘Look what you made me do’ she grumpily asserted which made me laugh even more. This girl, each and every morning, hurls herself from her bed and commits someone to the dastardly deed. I put my hands up in a solemn salute and yelped ‘twas not me Sir but by gum, what splendid rolling that was if I ever did see it’. She cracked a smile and I thought ‘phew. Charges diverted. Good word Sergeant Little Dick’.
However, despite all my hardships I’ve had a right old laugh as well. At the closing camp fire this evening I decided to treat the audience to a bit of old Blighty and after watching my co-counsellors give out certificates, I strutted up to the front with my scarf draped across my shoulders and knighted every single one of my girls with a twig and a red paper crown. Though at first a few were embarrassed due to their boyfriends sat in the pews (which is ridiculous, all boys love princesses. Disney taught us all that from a young age) by the time we went for our celebratory Papa John's pizza they al had them perching on their heads at jaunty angles. I was properly proud.
Tomorrow I am off to Emma's house again but this time with Anthony, Rickey and Udi in lieu. I am massively looking forward having some time to chill out and not spend money before waddling back for my LAST SESSION OF CAMP! Time flies when you're eating pies, eh?
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Sunday 1st August 2010
There’s something nice about sitting in your own sweat. Grim, I know, but still.
My girls and I have just trotted around the camp twice with quick intermissions of star jumps, squats and sit-ups. We finished it all off with 5 laps around the swings before splashing ourselves cool in the water fountain (2 girls looked like they’d drowned) and scrabbling into bed.
Why this sudden urge to be fit and healthy? I put it all down to the Olympics yesterday. Joined with a boys cabin, we formed the formidable country (or ‘non-country’ as my snooty peers like to call it) of WALES. I made some rather excellent signs that nobody got including:
‘WALES. Dwi’n hoffi coffi’
‘Charles, The Prince of Wales, isn’t Welsh,
BUT HE WISHES HE WAS!’
‘Tom Jones is my homeboy. Innit la’
and
‘WALES. The kind that don’t need saving.’
It took everything in my being to not write one declaring:
‘WALES. We’ve got the biggest dick in the ocean’
However, that whole I-like-having-a-job-and-don’t-want-to-be-stranded thing stopped me. Darn my respectable priorities.
After an abysmal morning of volleyball and tug of war -which may I add is NOT a sport destined for small children, thought we’d killed off half of them- we were feeling slightly downhearted. However, after our fierce Welsh chant stirred the throng of eager athletes, we were game for the afternoon activities.
So, teaming with positivity, we sliced through the pool (freestyle and sweater race) and nimbly manipulated the track events and today, were awarded with a shiny 3rd place. Okay, so there were only 4 teams but the fact we didn’t sludge in at last place (sorry Ireland) was a galactic achievement in itself. Bravo Wales, bravo.
Sunday was and always is a slow day. However, Sunday is also my mega break sit about on Facebook day. This evening, I spent my extra hour off looking at 56 million pictures of my co-counsellor Rickey on his flickr page. Blimey, that sounds awfully pervy. He was there though and gave me a commentary of every single one that went like this: ‘Ray, he’s a nice boy’, ‘Katie, she’s a nice girl’, ‘my bike, it’s nice’ and ‘that’s Ray again, he’s a nice boy’.
In my head, Sunday also means that the session is almost over. I have but 4 whole days left before extreme coffee relaxation time begins. Coffee relaxation is almost an oxymoron but I don’t bloody care. All I know is that I want, want, want. However, I’m definitely going to miss this session’s kids. They have been the closest to being friends if I’m allowed to issue that word to campers. Yet, and I can’t help feel that I’m jinxing myself here, but due to the small numbers, I’m finding myself bored. This blog (which can I just point out is way over 10,000 words now. Wow) has been increasingly more about me this past week than about the kids and camp and this makes me sad. This was not the aim and I promise that if you keep with me, I’ll try and rummage about for some top notch stories.
TOP NOTCH STORIES!!! I just remembered one. A camper put a grasshopper into Emma’s welly today which she proceeded to squish when putting on and thus killing the poor blighter. The child would have easily got away with it had she not been so smug with her ploy, the balmy bugger.
Bugs life is playing in the background and I’m going to attempt to write some of this novel of mine. I wrote the first 34 words before which have absolutely no relevance to anything. Ah, bit like this blog, eh?!
Kids say the funniest things
Chelsea: Did you enjoy your tacos, Taco?
Taco: (face of disgust) NO! I don’t eat my own kind.
The words of one of our meal time graces are: Thank you kitchen, for giving us foooood! Alas, I heard the older boys singing:
‘Fuck you kitchennnnn, for making us fattttt!’
Definitely one of those times you have to turn away and laugh.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Udi: I interviewed Bill Clinton once in Sri Lanka. I think he was coming onto me. I’d shaved my beard, you know, so I looked feminine.
Bug bites to date
56. I've been told that the 2 humungous ones on my ankle and back look like spider bites. Nice.
My girls and I have just trotted around the camp twice with quick intermissions of star jumps, squats and sit-ups. We finished it all off with 5 laps around the swings before splashing ourselves cool in the water fountain (2 girls looked like they’d drowned) and scrabbling into bed.
Why this sudden urge to be fit and healthy? I put it all down to the Olympics yesterday. Joined with a boys cabin, we formed the formidable country (or ‘non-country’ as my snooty peers like to call it) of WALES. I made some rather excellent signs that nobody got including:
‘WALES. Dwi’n hoffi coffi’
‘Charles, The Prince of Wales, isn’t Welsh,
BUT HE WISHES HE WAS!’
‘Tom Jones is my homeboy. Innit la’
and
‘WALES. The kind that don’t need saving.’
It took everything in my being to not write one declaring:
‘WALES. We’ve got the biggest dick in the ocean’
However, that whole I-like-having-a-job-and-don’t-want-to-be-stranded thing stopped me. Darn my respectable priorities.
After an abysmal morning of volleyball and tug of war -which may I add is NOT a sport destined for small children, thought we’d killed off half of them- we were feeling slightly downhearted. However, after our fierce Welsh chant stirred the throng of eager athletes, we were game for the afternoon activities.
So, teaming with positivity, we sliced through the pool (freestyle and sweater race) and nimbly manipulated the track events and today, were awarded with a shiny 3rd place. Okay, so there were only 4 teams but the fact we didn’t sludge in at last place (sorry Ireland) was a galactic achievement in itself. Bravo Wales, bravo.
Sunday was and always is a slow day. However, Sunday is also my mega break sit about on Facebook day. This evening, I spent my extra hour off looking at 56 million pictures of my co-counsellor Rickey on his flickr page. Blimey, that sounds awfully pervy. He was there though and gave me a commentary of every single one that went like this: ‘Ray, he’s a nice boy’, ‘Katie, she’s a nice girl’, ‘my bike, it’s nice’ and ‘that’s Ray again, he’s a nice boy’.
In my head, Sunday also means that the session is almost over. I have but 4 whole days left before extreme coffee relaxation time begins. Coffee relaxation is almost an oxymoron but I don’t bloody care. All I know is that I want, want, want. However, I’m definitely going to miss this session’s kids. They have been the closest to being friends if I’m allowed to issue that word to campers. Yet, and I can’t help feel that I’m jinxing myself here, but due to the small numbers, I’m finding myself bored. This blog (which can I just point out is way over 10,000 words now. Wow) has been increasingly more about me this past week than about the kids and camp and this makes me sad. This was not the aim and I promise that if you keep with me, I’ll try and rummage about for some top notch stories.
TOP NOTCH STORIES!!! I just remembered one. A camper put a grasshopper into Emma’s welly today which she proceeded to squish when putting on and thus killing the poor blighter. The child would have easily got away with it had she not been so smug with her ploy, the balmy bugger.
Bugs life is playing in the background and I’m going to attempt to write some of this novel of mine. I wrote the first 34 words before which have absolutely no relevance to anything. Ah, bit like this blog, eh?!
Kids say the funniest things
Chelsea: Did you enjoy your tacos, Taco?
Taco: (face of disgust) NO! I don’t eat my own kind.
The words of one of our meal time graces are: Thank you kitchen, for giving us foooood! Alas, I heard the older boys singing:
‘Fuck you kitchennnnn, for making us fattttt!’
Definitely one of those times you have to turn away and laugh.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Udi: I interviewed Bill Clinton once in Sri Lanka. I think he was coming onto me. I’d shaved my beard, you know, so I looked feminine.
Bug bites to date
56. I've been told that the 2 humungous ones on my ankle and back look like spider bites. Nice.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Saturday 31st July 2010
I think my co-counsellor Sandro thinks I am a cat. For the last few days he’s taken to nuzzling up to me on the couch, massaging my back and on my break just now, he actually started stroking my hair. I am unsure to which of my characteristics he has likened to the feline species; perhaps it’s my mesmeric powder blue eyes, my svelte agility (ho ho ho) or maybe just the fact I have a particular penchant for salmon? All I know is that the more I do not tell him to desist in this activity, (I haven’t yet since photo tagging is an awfully banal pursuit and I’ve found that ‘here kitty, kitty, kitty’ is mildly comforting in the least) I will actually turn into a cat for real and spend my evenings making sardine brûlée and putting lonely hearts ads up in my alley for forlorn spinsters.
I have just sneezed 3 times in a row. Mmm. I like sneezing. It is my favourite germ expelling activity of all time.
Today, I got pissed off. I don’t know where it came from or why it occurred, but all I know was I was of the grumpy sort. Can it be that I was feeling too positive about this session? Could it be that there is a quota on how happy one can be before a negative twinge stipples your veins and whooshes throughout your body in a quick thump, wallop, kapow? No, definitely not. So where this emotion came from, god knows, but though I have
1) learnt that I do like children and do like working with them (phew)
and
2) completely and utterly enjoy the company of my co-counsellors (even when they think I am a pet)
I have realised that I bloody miss me.
Okay, so you’re sat there thinking ‘what a vain old coot’ but I know that you also get what I mean. It’s that time when you close your door behind you, recline in your chair and just go ‘ahhh, hello me, we meet again’. And though I normally don’t take to chatting myself up in such a tawdry manner, I do miss sitting alone and just being. I miss reading in bed, writing at my desk, strolling into town, sitting in coffee shops and giving people’s outfits marks out of ten, counting mad people on the bus, dodging buses like a mad person and more than anything, I miss telling people that I love my me time. I have no opportunity here to watch their faces twitch in bafflement as I say I like being alone. You are constantly surrounded 24/7 and though this fulfils all my social check boxes (tick, tick, tick) I’m still left longing, nay, yearrrninggg for my little room in Manchester that will be just mine.
Alas, for now: what will be will be. I’ll keep on with my chummy ways and who knows, perhaps if I’m extra nice, someone will leave me a large estate home in the back end of nowhere for me to folly about in the bird bath. I’ve heard that mad people sometimes do that with their cats and Sandro may just fit the bill.
I have just sneezed 3 times in a row. Mmm. I like sneezing. It is my favourite germ expelling activity of all time.
Today, I got pissed off. I don’t know where it came from or why it occurred, but all I know was I was of the grumpy sort. Can it be that I was feeling too positive about this session? Could it be that there is a quota on how happy one can be before a negative twinge stipples your veins and whooshes throughout your body in a quick thump, wallop, kapow? No, definitely not. So where this emotion came from, god knows, but though I have
1) learnt that I do like children and do like working with them (phew)
and
2) completely and utterly enjoy the company of my co-counsellors (even when they think I am a pet)
I have realised that I bloody miss me.
Okay, so you’re sat there thinking ‘what a vain old coot’ but I know that you also get what I mean. It’s that time when you close your door behind you, recline in your chair and just go ‘ahhh, hello me, we meet again’. And though I normally don’t take to chatting myself up in such a tawdry manner, I do miss sitting alone and just being. I miss reading in bed, writing at my desk, strolling into town, sitting in coffee shops and giving people’s outfits marks out of ten, counting mad people on the bus, dodging buses like a mad person and more than anything, I miss telling people that I love my me time. I have no opportunity here to watch their faces twitch in bafflement as I say I like being alone. You are constantly surrounded 24/7 and though this fulfils all my social check boxes (tick, tick, tick) I’m still left longing, nay, yearrrninggg for my little room in Manchester that will be just mine.
Alas, for now: what will be will be. I’ll keep on with my chummy ways and who knows, perhaps if I’m extra nice, someone will leave me a large estate home in the back end of nowhere for me to folly about in the bird bath. I’ve heard that mad people sometimes do that with their cats and Sandro may just fit the bill.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Friday 30th July 2010
Dreams. Earlier this week I dreamt that I’d have 5 campers in my cabin. I woke up and had 5 campers in my cabin. The next evening I dreamt that an ex-counsellor got a job at footlocker. I woke up and found out that an ex-counsellor got a job at footlocker. Last night, I dreamt that my Mum and Dad flew all the way over to New York to see me. I woke up and I’m still waiting. Bastards.
Books. This week I have had my snozz deeply tucked in books. I bolted down Pride and Prej and am now onto Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Foer. All I can say is that when a book has your mind wallowing in a literary oasis after the first paragraph, you know you’re onto a winner.
Writing. Since I have been reading more, I have been writing less in my blog, but wanting to write more in general. Confusing, I know, but I have quite decided to write my own novel also. My co-counsellor Emma is currently writing a fantasy novel and is achieving 3,000 words a day. Imagine me hauling that kind of poetic prowess on my blog everyday? Bloody hell. But anywho, I’ve come up with a concept and I just have to, er, write it now. Easy peasy apple dapple. Right?
Camp. As I mentioned before, I only have 5 kids this session and it’s an absolute doddle in comparison to previous times. My girls and I have taken to have a pre-lights-out rave every evening that has ended in a variety of different ways: a music video, a catwalk, an aerobics work out and a rap. Brilliant.
Dating. The kids this session are very taken with the idea that we’re all dating each other. I am currently married to 1 whilst dating 3 of my co-counsellors on the side. One of my campers unfortunately informed me that my husband wants a divorce, which after watching him stomp up and down the camp catwalk in my clothes, a wig and a gazebo load of make up this evening, I am quite glad.
Disney. Disney films are the most excellent things in the world. They are eye drugs for insomniac tykes.
Girls Circle. Girls circle is an activity in which we talk to the older girls about all those ‘important’ topics in life. However, the other day we cast aside our activities and just sad down and had a good old chat. I shall end on the quotes from that one-hour as it truly was, one of the most hilarious hours of my life.
Kids say the funniest things- Girls circle edition
After talking about fatty foods
Girl: I have trans fats! On my thighs.
When discussing mental health
Girl: I poked my nephew in his soft spot. That’s supposed to be healthy for babies.
Girl: I have fat around my brain and that’s why I don’t think good.
Girl: Why does sweat taste so good?
Emma: Judy Garland died from a drug overdose
Girl (exclaiming): WHAT! My Mom told me that she was robbed!
Girl: My Mom rode her bike into a car.
Emma: Was it moving?!
Girl: No, but it moved when she hit it.
Girl: My Uncle calls your butt a turd cutter.
Kid ask the funniest things- Girls circle edition
Girl: This is kind of a personal question but where do your teeth go when you’re kissing?
Girl: How did it feel to be in prison, Emma?
Emma: I’ve never been to prison.
Girl: I was watching this movie and the boyfriend and girlfriend were biting each other’s eyebrows. Why were they doing that?
Chelsea: Erm…
Bites to date
I don't even want to talk about this any more. I'm way above 50 and my body is a constant chasm of itching. I HATE YOU BUGS. YOU ARE THE BANE OF MY LIFE!
Books. This week I have had my snozz deeply tucked in books. I bolted down Pride and Prej and am now onto Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Foer. All I can say is that when a book has your mind wallowing in a literary oasis after the first paragraph, you know you’re onto a winner.
Writing. Since I have been reading more, I have been writing less in my blog, but wanting to write more in general. Confusing, I know, but I have quite decided to write my own novel also. My co-counsellor Emma is currently writing a fantasy novel and is achieving 3,000 words a day. Imagine me hauling that kind of poetic prowess on my blog everyday? Bloody hell. But anywho, I’ve come up with a concept and I just have to, er, write it now. Easy peasy apple dapple. Right?
Camp. As I mentioned before, I only have 5 kids this session and it’s an absolute doddle in comparison to previous times. My girls and I have taken to have a pre-lights-out rave every evening that has ended in a variety of different ways: a music video, a catwalk, an aerobics work out and a rap. Brilliant.
Dating. The kids this session are very taken with the idea that we’re all dating each other. I am currently married to 1 whilst dating 3 of my co-counsellors on the side. One of my campers unfortunately informed me that my husband wants a divorce, which after watching him stomp up and down the camp catwalk in my clothes, a wig and a gazebo load of make up this evening, I am quite glad.
Disney. Disney films are the most excellent things in the world. They are eye drugs for insomniac tykes.
Girls Circle. Girls circle is an activity in which we talk to the older girls about all those ‘important’ topics in life. However, the other day we cast aside our activities and just sad down and had a good old chat. I shall end on the quotes from that one-hour as it truly was, one of the most hilarious hours of my life.
Kids say the funniest things- Girls circle edition
After talking about fatty foods
Girl: I have trans fats! On my thighs.
When discussing mental health
Girl: I poked my nephew in his soft spot. That’s supposed to be healthy for babies.
Girl: I have fat around my brain and that’s why I don’t think good.
Girl: Why does sweat taste so good?
Emma: Judy Garland died from a drug overdose
Girl (exclaiming): WHAT! My Mom told me that she was robbed!
Girl: My Mom rode her bike into a car.
Emma: Was it moving?!
Girl: No, but it moved when she hit it.
Girl: My Uncle calls your butt a turd cutter.
Kid ask the funniest things- Girls circle edition
Girl: This is kind of a personal question but where do your teeth go when you’re kissing?
Girl: How did it feel to be in prison, Emma?
Emma: I’ve never been to prison.
Girl: I was watching this movie and the boyfriend and girlfriend were biting each other’s eyebrows. Why were they doing that?
Chelsea: Erm…
Bites to date
I don't even want to talk about this any more. I'm way above 50 and my body is a constant chasm of itching. I HATE YOU BUGS. YOU ARE THE BANE OF MY LIFE!
Friday, 30 July 2010
Monday 26th July 2010
Pulling my socks up, I run outside into the sun. Before me stands two older girls, both decked out in yellow staff t-shirts playing Frisbee with a teenage girl.
‘You coming to play?’ calls one of the girls. She has strawberry blonde hair, cheeks peppered with freckles and the name of Ally. I nod enthusiastically and sprint over, letting the dew from the grass seep into my extra fast running sneakers.
The game begins and as I sling the Frisbee into the air, I watch it slice through the blue, cutting pizza slices in the air, before trundling on the floor like the metre stick we once used to measure the field at school. Yet, before long, my excitement starts to wane and I’m about to return to my cabin when I see it.
My hearts beats wildly and I cast about, anticipating everyone else’s shock as they notice it too. Yet, they carry on, oblivious to the malevolent stare that surveys them from the top branches.
‘Ooof! What was that?’ cackles the other counsellor as the Frisbee ricochets off the tree and I simply can’t take it anymore.
‘You’ve got to hide!’ I yell. ‘It can see you, it’s coming closer!’
The girl closest to me, Chelsea, regards me with a smile and replies ‘and what would that be, missus?’ I know she’s just playing with me now but we’ve no time to lose. I can’t believe it’s found me again.
‘The monster! It’s coming for us and it’s in that tree there,’ I say, pointing. ‘You need to hide now!’
The counsellor’s exchange amused looks and I clench my fists at their ignorance.
‘There’s no monster,’ simpered Ally, ‘come and play Frisbee with us, you’.
‘There is! I see him, he’s moving closer. He can see all of us! You need to run and hide’.
‘But we are hiding,’ slips in Chelsea. ‘We’re in the shade, the monster can’t see us from here. We’re completely safe’.
‘You’re not safe! None of us are! I’ve got to use my powers!’
Chelsea peers under her sunglasses at me and says ‘but didn’t you know that all of us counsellors are trained to fight monsters? What did you think our training session was for? We were each given a special power to defeat the monsters so if we see one, we’ve got it. Don’t worry’.
‘But you can’t see them! Only I have the power to see them!’ I shake my head defiantly. How would she know how to kill a monster that she couldn’t see? How dare she put us in this danger with her blatant lack of knowledge. If I was the only one that could see it (and see it I could. It was seething at me from the lower branches, it’s red eyes twisting sadistically in its sockets) it was I that was going to have to stop him.
‘I’m going to get my powers from the cabin. Stay in the shade and don’t move. The monster only attacks those in yellow’.
I dart off leaving the two girls stretching their yellow t-shirts before them, letting a bemused smile lick around their lips.
Inside, my hands desperately clamber for my powers. I know they’re here somewhere- if only I hadn’t hidden them so well! My straying eyes dare to look outside and the monster is crawling towards the players, dragging it’s walloping arms behind it and exhorting flurries of putrid steam from its nostrils. I need to help them now.
At last, I reach into my trunk and my hand closes on my powers. I can feel the warmth of it as I clasp it in my grip and dash outside. The girls are waiting for me now as the monster peers over their shoulders; their hair flutters in its wake. It raises its claws to the top of Ally’s head. He’s about to strike. Barely daring to breath, I bring forth my hand, feeling my powers bursting with an ardent throb under my fingernails. The monster dips his head as he looks at me and I attack. The strobes from my hand hit it straight in the chest and panting, it rolls to the floor. With a tentative grown, it gets up and flees. Success.
Ally turns to me, finally realising that something is going on and whispers urgently ‘is he gone yet?’
‘Yes, I got him with my powers.’
‘And powers are these?’
I opened my hand to reveal the reason for my success: a minute statue of a goat. The girls stand agog and I smile boastfully, few also possess the powers that I have.
Chelsea beckons me forward, a sparkle in her eyes and says ‘is there only one person here to save us?’ 'Yes.' 'Is that person you?' and, drawing in all the breath in my lungs, I let out a sigh of exasperation and reply ‘yes. Yes I am.’
‘You coming to play?’ calls one of the girls. She has strawberry blonde hair, cheeks peppered with freckles and the name of Ally. I nod enthusiastically and sprint over, letting the dew from the grass seep into my extra fast running sneakers.
The game begins and as I sling the Frisbee into the air, I watch it slice through the blue, cutting pizza slices in the air, before trundling on the floor like the metre stick we once used to measure the field at school. Yet, before long, my excitement starts to wane and I’m about to return to my cabin when I see it.
My hearts beats wildly and I cast about, anticipating everyone else’s shock as they notice it too. Yet, they carry on, oblivious to the malevolent stare that surveys them from the top branches.
‘Ooof! What was that?’ cackles the other counsellor as the Frisbee ricochets off the tree and I simply can’t take it anymore.
‘You’ve got to hide!’ I yell. ‘It can see you, it’s coming closer!’
The girl closest to me, Chelsea, regards me with a smile and replies ‘and what would that be, missus?’ I know she’s just playing with me now but we’ve no time to lose. I can’t believe it’s found me again.
‘The monster! It’s coming for us and it’s in that tree there,’ I say, pointing. ‘You need to hide now!’
The counsellor’s exchange amused looks and I clench my fists at their ignorance.
‘There’s no monster,’ simpered Ally, ‘come and play Frisbee with us, you’.
‘There is! I see him, he’s moving closer. He can see all of us! You need to run and hide’.
‘But we are hiding,’ slips in Chelsea. ‘We’re in the shade, the monster can’t see us from here. We’re completely safe’.
‘You’re not safe! None of us are! I’ve got to use my powers!’
Chelsea peers under her sunglasses at me and says ‘but didn’t you know that all of us counsellors are trained to fight monsters? What did you think our training session was for? We were each given a special power to defeat the monsters so if we see one, we’ve got it. Don’t worry’.
‘But you can’t see them! Only I have the power to see them!’ I shake my head defiantly. How would she know how to kill a monster that she couldn’t see? How dare she put us in this danger with her blatant lack of knowledge. If I was the only one that could see it (and see it I could. It was seething at me from the lower branches, it’s red eyes twisting sadistically in its sockets) it was I that was going to have to stop him.
‘I’m going to get my powers from the cabin. Stay in the shade and don’t move. The monster only attacks those in yellow’.
I dart off leaving the two girls stretching their yellow t-shirts before them, letting a bemused smile lick around their lips.
Inside, my hands desperately clamber for my powers. I know they’re here somewhere- if only I hadn’t hidden them so well! My straying eyes dare to look outside and the monster is crawling towards the players, dragging it’s walloping arms behind it and exhorting flurries of putrid steam from its nostrils. I need to help them now.
At last, I reach into my trunk and my hand closes on my powers. I can feel the warmth of it as I clasp it in my grip and dash outside. The girls are waiting for me now as the monster peers over their shoulders; their hair flutters in its wake. It raises its claws to the top of Ally’s head. He’s about to strike. Barely daring to breath, I bring forth my hand, feeling my powers bursting with an ardent throb under my fingernails. The monster dips his head as he looks at me and I attack. The strobes from my hand hit it straight in the chest and panting, it rolls to the floor. With a tentative grown, it gets up and flees. Success.
Ally turns to me, finally realising that something is going on and whispers urgently ‘is he gone yet?’
‘Yes, I got him with my powers.’
‘And powers are these?’
I opened my hand to reveal the reason for my success: a minute statue of a goat. The girls stand agog and I smile boastfully, few also possess the powers that I have.
Chelsea beckons me forward, a sparkle in her eyes and says ‘is there only one person here to save us?’ 'Yes.' 'Is that person you?' and, drawing in all the breath in my lungs, I let out a sigh of exasperation and reply ‘yes. Yes I am.’
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Sunday 25th July 2010
I’m halfway done. This time next month I’ll be slouching about Oglethorpe, probably playing flip cup and warding off refills of everclear (rape juice to you and I) in my shiny red party cup. However, ‘tis no point basking in the future when the present is oh so very presently present. Tomorrow boldly awaits and with it, the start of session 3. I would definitely go as far to say that I have skied through the rugged terrain of amateur counsellorhood and am now tussling with the reigns of semi-pro. Very soon I will be able sell this blog off to that idiotic series of ‘Bat Catching For Dummies’ and make 20 to 30 pounds. That’s like 11 caramel lattes.
As Emma and I made the struggle back to camp, I quickly finished my mega extra large caramel latte and experienced what I can only call a complete caffeine meltdown. There I was, chronically comatose in the front seat, practically jittering from the whole 2 shots of coffee I’d downed. I swiftly came to the conclusion that as hard as I try, I just cannot take it. I am a PG tips girl at heart and that way I will be forever.
My weekend was thoroughly pleasant. Anthony and I wasted a lot of time and money in the city via our epic wanderings and Emma and I chilled out and ate wonderful home cooked food at her home in Rinebeck. The outcome of this is that I am in a terrific mood that I am hoping will last me through the next 12 days.
Though no amusing stories to tell, I hope that this entry merely shows that I’m doing just fine, that I can write short amounts and that all is well in the world of Chelsea : )
As Emma and I made the struggle back to camp, I quickly finished my mega extra large caramel latte and experienced what I can only call a complete caffeine meltdown. There I was, chronically comatose in the front seat, practically jittering from the whole 2 shots of coffee I’d downed. I swiftly came to the conclusion that as hard as I try, I just cannot take it. I am a PG tips girl at heart and that way I will be forever.
My weekend was thoroughly pleasant. Anthony and I wasted a lot of time and money in the city via our epic wanderings and Emma and I chilled out and ate wonderful home cooked food at her home in Rinebeck. The outcome of this is that I am in a terrific mood that I am hoping will last me through the next 12 days.
Though no amusing stories to tell, I hope that this entry merely shows that I’m doing just fine, that I can write short amounts and that all is well in the world of Chelsea : )
Friday, 23 July 2010
Thursday 22nd July 2010
Hark! What’s this? A blog post?! You thought I’d forgotten you say? You thought I’d been dragged into the steely abyss of abhorrent child preoccupation? Yet, alas! Tis not the case my humble readers (hello Mumsy D!) In fact, there have been an array of reasons including spending every break hauling together an entry for the Student Radio Awards which is FINALLY DONE and I’m moderately content with.
However, the other reason that I only realised t’other eve, was that instead of grappling for tomorrow with a desperate groan in my chest, I’m skipping around it going ‘la la la la la, hello weekend, nice to see you! I’ve had quite a capital time thank you but 2 days off? Oh, go on!’ That’s right guys. I, Chelsea Dickenson, am finally casting in my cynical visage and embracing the fact that camp is really quite fun.
Of course, this week hasn’t been completely smooth. We had a girl with aspergers last week who managed to accuse a camper of sexual assault within 3 hours on the first day- eeeek. I definitely appreciated the challenge of working with a girl who constantly asked me questions such as ‘can I have your eyeballs?’ and ‘can I slap you please?’ (at least she was polite) but I didn’t quite fancy being also accused and seeing my life go down the pan.
Down the pan- what a marvellous phrase. These Americans already get confused when I say ‘just popping off to the loo’ so imagine if I start declaring ‘I’m just off to see a man about his pans’?
Some of the highlights from this week include: young love. A young boy, brought together with a girl through Cray fishing and high fives, was desperate to impress his loved one so collected 30 silly bands (bracelets that turn into shapes when you take them off. The manufacturers were right, they are silly) to swap with his friend for an ornament of a dolphin. The girl was overcome with giggling glee, yet I found out the next day that she’d called it quits. When I asked why, the girls around me replied ‘she dumped him because he was crying about losing a silly band yesterday’. If only they knew! Oh the shattering irony!!
Another high was seeing Emma and I’s ‘Glee Club’ (oh yes, we went there) perform last night in the talent show. They were amazing. However, a small 5-year-old boy stole the show after doing the cutest rendition of Thriller. I actually wanted to steal him by the end of the night.
Also, a major difference from last session is that we appear to have actually made a difference. I received a bounty of thank you cards today with generic ‘you’re awesome’ exclamations yet a couple were doused with lengthy explanations about how their attitude has changed about gossiping (we had a major issue at one point) and how they’ve started to appreciate what they’ve got more. All I can say for that is: wow. I’ve also learnt to appreciate my own Mum and Dad more since being here as kids really don’t understand what’s wrong when you dish out money for a film, pizza, the works and then they whinge about it not being what they wanted. How the Jonna team didn’t slap me silly, I’ll never know for all I wanted to do is go ‘I’LL TAKE MY ANGUS, THONGS AND FULL FRONTAL SNOGGING AND WATCH IT IN MY MOSQUITO BOUDOIR WHILST EATING 16 PIECES OF MASSIVE, GREASY, EXTREMEMLY AMERICAN PIZZA BEFORE VOMMING IT ALL OVER YOU’. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’d have a job by the end of it and I don’t quite fancy being stuck in a field in New York, thank you very much.
So, that’s it, session two is over. I’m popping to New York tomorrow (oh, I do like saying that) to find a Natwest. How absolutely devastatingly crap a reason is that to visit one of the most exciting cities in the world? Yet, I have rent to pay and pay that rent I will. I’m hoping to also catch a show and buy a fusillade of tourist junk to send to my loved ones. My last wish is to accost the naked cowboy and make him put on some clothes, the lairy minx.
I’ll leave you with a quick overview of the past 2 weeks in the best way possible. Ah children, what else can bring such gaiety?
Kids say the funniest things
12-year-old girl: Is Obama your president too?
Girl: I know what a booty call is! It’s when you call over to a boy and shake your bum in his face.
Camper: Did you brush your hair this morning?
Chelsea: No
Camper: You can tell
In a thank you card to Emma and I
‘You have been really nice during the whole week. I will be happy to serve you until Friday’.
I feel like Voldermort.
Girl 1: Should I get the Papa Johns cheese for the table?
Chelsea: The what?
Girl: The Papa Johns!
Girl 2: I think she means Parmesan, Chelsea.
Girl: Did Hilary Duff run for president?
Girl: Did you know that if a polar bear bites you, you turn into snow?
Total bites to date
38.
How silly of I to think I’d become immune to the blighters. One massive bite turned into a ravaging blister that scowled from my leg for 10 days. I told the kids that it was full of an emergency supply of lip-gloss. The things I do for the benefit of these childrens’ education…
Interesting find of the session
I have decided to get all cultured and knowledgeable through reading some top-notch classics and obviously, started with Pride and Prejudice. I was quite getting into it (please note my use of the word capital in this post) when I happened upon (oooh, there’s another classic vocab brag) this line:
“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter!”
“La! My dear,” cried Maria.
La? La!!! What’s this? Jane Austen was a closet chav!
This made me so rapturously excited that I slipped into my Lacoste shell suit and did the cha cha slide on top of the monkey bars for all to see. The kids were yelling phrases such as ‘alriggggh ked’ and ‘ger’in ma novaaaa’. What a hoot!
However, the other reason that I only realised t’other eve, was that instead of grappling for tomorrow with a desperate groan in my chest, I’m skipping around it going ‘la la la la la, hello weekend, nice to see you! I’ve had quite a capital time thank you but 2 days off? Oh, go on!’ That’s right guys. I, Chelsea Dickenson, am finally casting in my cynical visage and embracing the fact that camp is really quite fun.
Of course, this week hasn’t been completely smooth. We had a girl with aspergers last week who managed to accuse a camper of sexual assault within 3 hours on the first day- eeeek. I definitely appreciated the challenge of working with a girl who constantly asked me questions such as ‘can I have your eyeballs?’ and ‘can I slap you please?’ (at least she was polite) but I didn’t quite fancy being also accused and seeing my life go down the pan.
Down the pan- what a marvellous phrase. These Americans already get confused when I say ‘just popping off to the loo’ so imagine if I start declaring ‘I’m just off to see a man about his pans’?
Some of the highlights from this week include: young love. A young boy, brought together with a girl through Cray fishing and high fives, was desperate to impress his loved one so collected 30 silly bands (bracelets that turn into shapes when you take them off. The manufacturers were right, they are silly) to swap with his friend for an ornament of a dolphin. The girl was overcome with giggling glee, yet I found out the next day that she’d called it quits. When I asked why, the girls around me replied ‘she dumped him because he was crying about losing a silly band yesterday’. If only they knew! Oh the shattering irony!!
Another high was seeing Emma and I’s ‘Glee Club’ (oh yes, we went there) perform last night in the talent show. They were amazing. However, a small 5-year-old boy stole the show after doing the cutest rendition of Thriller. I actually wanted to steal him by the end of the night.
Also, a major difference from last session is that we appear to have actually made a difference. I received a bounty of thank you cards today with generic ‘you’re awesome’ exclamations yet a couple were doused with lengthy explanations about how their attitude has changed about gossiping (we had a major issue at one point) and how they’ve started to appreciate what they’ve got more. All I can say for that is: wow. I’ve also learnt to appreciate my own Mum and Dad more since being here as kids really don’t understand what’s wrong when you dish out money for a film, pizza, the works and then they whinge about it not being what they wanted. How the Jonna team didn’t slap me silly, I’ll never know for all I wanted to do is go ‘I’LL TAKE MY ANGUS, THONGS AND FULL FRONTAL SNOGGING AND WATCH IT IN MY MOSQUITO BOUDOIR WHILST EATING 16 PIECES OF MASSIVE, GREASY, EXTREMEMLY AMERICAN PIZZA BEFORE VOMMING IT ALL OVER YOU’. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’d have a job by the end of it and I don’t quite fancy being stuck in a field in New York, thank you very much.
So, that’s it, session two is over. I’m popping to New York tomorrow (oh, I do like saying that) to find a Natwest. How absolutely devastatingly crap a reason is that to visit one of the most exciting cities in the world? Yet, I have rent to pay and pay that rent I will. I’m hoping to also catch a show and buy a fusillade of tourist junk to send to my loved ones. My last wish is to accost the naked cowboy and make him put on some clothes, the lairy minx.
I’ll leave you with a quick overview of the past 2 weeks in the best way possible. Ah children, what else can bring such gaiety?
Kids say the funniest things
12-year-old girl: Is Obama your president too?
Girl: I know what a booty call is! It’s when you call over to a boy and shake your bum in his face.
Camper: Did you brush your hair this morning?
Chelsea: No
Camper: You can tell
In a thank you card to Emma and I
‘You have been really nice during the whole week. I will be happy to serve you until Friday’.
I feel like Voldermort.
Girl 1: Should I get the Papa Johns cheese for the table?
Chelsea: The what?
Girl: The Papa Johns!
Girl 2: I think she means Parmesan, Chelsea.
Girl: Did Hilary Duff run for president?
Girl: Did you know that if a polar bear bites you, you turn into snow?
Total bites to date
38.
How silly of I to think I’d become immune to the blighters. One massive bite turned into a ravaging blister that scowled from my leg for 10 days. I told the kids that it was full of an emergency supply of lip-gloss. The things I do for the benefit of these childrens’ education…
Interesting find of the session
I have decided to get all cultured and knowledgeable through reading some top-notch classics and obviously, started with Pride and Prejudice. I was quite getting into it (please note my use of the word capital in this post) when I happened upon (oooh, there’s another classic vocab brag) this line:
“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter!”
“La! My dear,” cried Maria.
La? La!!! What’s this? Jane Austen was a closet chav!
This made me so rapturously excited that I slipped into my Lacoste shell suit and did the cha cha slide on top of the monkey bars for all to see. The kids were yelling phrases such as ‘alriggggh ked’ and ‘ger’in ma novaaaa’. What a hoot!
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Sunday 11th July 2010
Why is there this magnificent swell betrothed to New York? Why are there songs brimming with admiration and lusty desires about the place, written by nostalgic people wracked with a yearning anticipation to be back there? More so, why am I sat here writing about New York when it is certainly a place that has been hounded by blemished ink, photographs, models, structures, honeyed lyrics, hurried chatter and structures that render echoes of the great city itself for decades already?
“New York is a galaxy of adventure at once elegant, exciting and bizarre. It's a city that moves so fast, it takes energy just to stand still.” - Barbara Walters
All I can say to that is, amen brother, er, I mean sister.
They say pictures paint a thousand words so here’s a plethora of lexis for you to divulge your nosey needs on:
One of my first sights after I'd hoisted myself from the subway which I must say, we spent half of our weekend on getting lost.
One of my first sights after getting off the Subway and walking to my hostel in Brooklyn. Lovely neighbourhood. Actually, in honesty, it really was nice!
When I said it was a nice neighbourhood, I obviously meant that our hostel was next to a funeral home.
They have such better flavours than us. Cinnabon flavoured? IN MY MOUTH- YES PLEASE!
Anthony and I on a very busy Stone St. at an Irish Pub.
Louis XIV and I fooling about in the Met Museum.
Really impressive art.
Actual real impressive art: Mark by Chuck Close.
So I was in Urban Outfitters, heard somebody call my name and Nuval, my friend from Manchester Uni popped up. So much for one of the busiest cities in the world, eh?
Anthony got fined.
Dollar dollar pizza.
Me and Spidey. For those of you who didn't know, Spiderman is hispanic, a bit chubby and after dollar dollar (probably for his dollar dollar pizza).
Obama condom man. He was kadrunkadrunk and being sniffed at by touristing families outside of the M&M shop near Times Square.
Disappointment on my face after they switched the World Cup off at Times Square due to restaurants not getting enough business. What. The Hell.
But overall, it was a smashing trip and only 12 days until the next...
“New York is a galaxy of adventure at once elegant, exciting and bizarre. It's a city that moves so fast, it takes energy just to stand still.” - Barbara Walters
All I can say to that is, amen brother, er, I mean sister.
They say pictures paint a thousand words so here’s a plethora of lexis for you to divulge your nosey needs on:
One of my first sights after I'd hoisted myself from the subway which I must say, we spent half of our weekend on getting lost.
One of my first sights after getting off the Subway and walking to my hostel in Brooklyn. Lovely neighbourhood. Actually, in honesty, it really was nice!
When I said it was a nice neighbourhood, I obviously meant that our hostel was next to a funeral home.
They have such better flavours than us. Cinnabon flavoured? IN MY MOUTH- YES PLEASE!
Anthony and I on a very busy Stone St. at an Irish Pub.
Louis XIV and I fooling about in the Met Museum.
Really impressive art.
Actual real impressive art: Mark by Chuck Close.
So I was in Urban Outfitters, heard somebody call my name and Nuval, my friend from Manchester Uni popped up. So much for one of the busiest cities in the world, eh?
Anthony got fined.
Dollar dollar pizza.
Me and Spidey. For those of you who didn't know, Spiderman is hispanic, a bit chubby and after dollar dollar (probably for his dollar dollar pizza).
Obama condom man. He was kadrunkadrunk and being sniffed at by touristing families outside of the M&M shop near Times Square.
Disappointment on my face after they switched the World Cup off at Times Square due to restaurants not getting enough business. What. The Hell.
But overall, it was a smashing trip and only 12 days until the next...
Friday, 9 July 2010
Thursday 8th July 2010
Top 10 Things I Have Learnt From My First Session at Camp
1. Just because both of your nations speak English, it doesn’t mean they understand you
The amount of times I’ve had to repeat myself or change my sentence due to a lack of understanding is ridiculous. Today in Arts and Crafts, I said ‘how long would you like your piece of wool?’ to which everyone cackled. Sarah chirped ‘do you mean yarn?’ to which I retorted ‘no, it’s wool’. She giggled to herself before stating ‘no, it’s called yarn, sweetie’ which irked me rotten. I understand that you gained your independence from us in 17whatever but, IT IS CALLED ENGLISH FOR A REASON!
2. You will turn into a child
To settle the girls down after an abundance of candy (I said candy. Just spewed in my mouth a little bit) I proposed a game of ‘levitation’. I snapped all the lights off, got a girl to lie on the floor and the others to sit around her and repeat the traditional, if not a little satanic, chant of-
‘She looks ill,
She is ill,
She looks dead,
She is dead’
- before hoisting the sombre child lying on the floor as high up as possible.
It didn’t bloody work but I was thoroughly entertained by their titter-smattered attempts.
3. Farting is funny
Whilst doing the aforementioned activity of ‘levitating’, I’m sure you can understand that it is somewhat difficult for a group of 11 year olds to keep schtum in the seriousness of the occasion. After much giggling and scolding of said giggling, the girls finally settled down and suddenly, a swift silence swept the cabin and nothing in the room stirred. The girls held their breath as they sucked in the anticipation and formed the words of the sacred incantation; one leant in to start it off and-
‘Pffftttttt’
It was the lamest, most squeaky fart I have ever heard in my entire life but in that moment, it was also the funniest, most farcical thing that’s ever happened. You may call me childish but the group of rolling teens will vouch that that stray fart was top quality comedy genius. The girl who did it was applauded and praised for her noxious efforts.
4. When your parents used to not pay attention to you, it wasn’t because they didn’t love you, it was just because they were bored of you
I fear this point is fairly self-explanatory. It’s not that I don’t like the kids I work with, it’s just sometimes you really don’t care that they can blow bubbles underwater or whether they once saw a man walk 4 dogs at the same time. Sorry.
5. Hygiene is an unnecessary precaution
Smelly, minging, gamy, ripe, musty, whiffy, stinky, fruity, funky, grim- whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t matter. The fact of the matter is that we all smell so no one really notices. Well, not until you make a short trip to Walmart and you clear out the cheese aisle.
6. When told that working at summer camp was hard, they weren’t lying
Today I worked from 7am-11pm and had one 45 minute break. Now, I know what you’re thinking- ‘that’s illegal, right?’- but not in the camp world, my caring friends. You see, technically your meal times and siesta sessions are ‘breaks’ though in reality, that’s actually the part where you’re scrappling with children who want meatloaf in their hair or to use celery sticks as water guns. There’s also the fact that a child woke me at 3.30am the first night (I did a terrific job at not screaming. There she was, hovering over my bed with her pasty face and I thought ‘my god, the ghost of Summer Camp Past is here to show me my wrongs) and spent half an hour sitting by her bed so she felt comforted in the dark. Overall, it’s definitely a tough job, but sometimes it’s nice to work hard for something- makes you have that ‘oooh, I did good’ feeling somewhere deep (very deep) down inside.
7. You can sleep whilst swimming
During the latter of this week I have been so exhausted that I found myself entwined around the 5ft ladder this Tuesday, taking a well-deserved snooze. Other key places for taking a nap include: the bridge by the creek, the top of the monkey bars and the toilet.
8. Kids will match you up with your fellow co-counsellors
I’ve found that the best way to deal with the kids gossip about you and any other counsellor is to just boldly state ‘Yes. I am absolutely, 100% in love with them’ followed by a longing sigh and air stroke in said counsellor’s direction. They laugh, they giggle, they even sometimes run up to the guy to update them on the hot goss but after that, they usually don’t bother you again. The only problem is that Max is probably starting to think that I do actually fancy him as my emotional hankering is getting a little bit too good. The other day he just groaned after a poignant performance and said ‘Chelsea, please stop’. I haven’t desisted yet but I fear a court order may put me in my place.
9. Gossip is a dietary staple
I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I don’t tend to spread rumours or gossip unless the information at hand is despairingly juicy, however here, I thrive on it, and it’s not just me. Whether it’s counsellor relationship speculation or how one kid had a slight accident of the bowel variety (I’m not even joking), any information that defers from the regularity of life is the sweet nectar of a counsellor’s existence.
Another sweet nectar is coca cola (the red one). Anthony looked at me today and said ‘you look like you’ve had a tough day’, passed me coke and I literally shook with excitement.
10. You will long, lust, pine and covet for the weekend
I have been counting down my trip to NY tomorrow for the past 10 days. It is well overdue and I can’t bloody wait so, roll on tomorrow amigos! I vow to get off with statue of Liberty and gyrate with the naked cowboy at least 12 times, you have my absolute, cripplingly satisfying, stiflingly accurate, top advice giving, counsellor word on it.
1. Just because both of your nations speak English, it doesn’t mean they understand you
The amount of times I’ve had to repeat myself or change my sentence due to a lack of understanding is ridiculous. Today in Arts and Crafts, I said ‘how long would you like your piece of wool?’ to which everyone cackled. Sarah chirped ‘do you mean yarn?’ to which I retorted ‘no, it’s wool’. She giggled to herself before stating ‘no, it’s called yarn, sweetie’ which irked me rotten. I understand that you gained your independence from us in 17whatever but, IT IS CALLED ENGLISH FOR A REASON!
2. You will turn into a child
To settle the girls down after an abundance of candy (I said candy. Just spewed in my mouth a little bit) I proposed a game of ‘levitation’. I snapped all the lights off, got a girl to lie on the floor and the others to sit around her and repeat the traditional, if not a little satanic, chant of-
‘She looks ill,
She is ill,
She looks dead,
She is dead’
- before hoisting the sombre child lying on the floor as high up as possible.
It didn’t bloody work but I was thoroughly entertained by their titter-smattered attempts.
3. Farting is funny
Whilst doing the aforementioned activity of ‘levitating’, I’m sure you can understand that it is somewhat difficult for a group of 11 year olds to keep schtum in the seriousness of the occasion. After much giggling and scolding of said giggling, the girls finally settled down and suddenly, a swift silence swept the cabin and nothing in the room stirred. The girls held their breath as they sucked in the anticipation and formed the words of the sacred incantation; one leant in to start it off and-
‘Pffftttttt’
It was the lamest, most squeaky fart I have ever heard in my entire life but in that moment, it was also the funniest, most farcical thing that’s ever happened. You may call me childish but the group of rolling teens will vouch that that stray fart was top quality comedy genius. The girl who did it was applauded and praised for her noxious efforts.
4. When your parents used to not pay attention to you, it wasn’t because they didn’t love you, it was just because they were bored of you
I fear this point is fairly self-explanatory. It’s not that I don’t like the kids I work with, it’s just sometimes you really don’t care that they can blow bubbles underwater or whether they once saw a man walk 4 dogs at the same time. Sorry.
5. Hygiene is an unnecessary precaution
Smelly, minging, gamy, ripe, musty, whiffy, stinky, fruity, funky, grim- whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t matter. The fact of the matter is that we all smell so no one really notices. Well, not until you make a short trip to Walmart and you clear out the cheese aisle.
6. When told that working at summer camp was hard, they weren’t lying
Today I worked from 7am-11pm and had one 45 minute break. Now, I know what you’re thinking- ‘that’s illegal, right?’- but not in the camp world, my caring friends. You see, technically your meal times and siesta sessions are ‘breaks’ though in reality, that’s actually the part where you’re scrappling with children who want meatloaf in their hair or to use celery sticks as water guns. There’s also the fact that a child woke me at 3.30am the first night (I did a terrific job at not screaming. There she was, hovering over my bed with her pasty face and I thought ‘my god, the ghost of Summer Camp Past is here to show me my wrongs) and spent half an hour sitting by her bed so she felt comforted in the dark. Overall, it’s definitely a tough job, but sometimes it’s nice to work hard for something- makes you have that ‘oooh, I did good’ feeling somewhere deep (very deep) down inside.
7. You can sleep whilst swimming
During the latter of this week I have been so exhausted that I found myself entwined around the 5ft ladder this Tuesday, taking a well-deserved snooze. Other key places for taking a nap include: the bridge by the creek, the top of the monkey bars and the toilet.
8. Kids will match you up with your fellow co-counsellors
I’ve found that the best way to deal with the kids gossip about you and any other counsellor is to just boldly state ‘Yes. I am absolutely, 100% in love with them’ followed by a longing sigh and air stroke in said counsellor’s direction. They laugh, they giggle, they even sometimes run up to the guy to update them on the hot goss but after that, they usually don’t bother you again. The only problem is that Max is probably starting to think that I do actually fancy him as my emotional hankering is getting a little bit too good. The other day he just groaned after a poignant performance and said ‘Chelsea, please stop’. I haven’t desisted yet but I fear a court order may put me in my place.
9. Gossip is a dietary staple
I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I don’t tend to spread rumours or gossip unless the information at hand is despairingly juicy, however here, I thrive on it, and it’s not just me. Whether it’s counsellor relationship speculation or how one kid had a slight accident of the bowel variety (I’m not even joking), any information that defers from the regularity of life is the sweet nectar of a counsellor’s existence.
Another sweet nectar is coca cola (the red one). Anthony looked at me today and said ‘you look like you’ve had a tough day’, passed me coke and I literally shook with excitement.
10. You will long, lust, pine and covet for the weekend
I have been counting down my trip to NY tomorrow for the past 10 days. It is well overdue and I can’t bloody wait so, roll on tomorrow amigos! I vow to get off with statue of Liberty and gyrate with the naked cowboy at least 12 times, you have my absolute, cripplingly satisfying, stiflingly accurate, top advice giving, counsellor word on it.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Wednesday 7th July 2010
As I was retreating from a nature hike with a group, I submitted myself to a game of ‘I spy’ with an upset girl in order to cheer her up. I started with the usual straightforward objects (P for Plants, U for Udi) and it wasn’t long until the girl joined in. As we were hoisting ourselves up the hill to the basketball courts the girl states ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S’. I try all the obvious guesses (sky, sun, sister) but all of them failed to render success.
‘Are you sure you can see this thing?’ I asked the girl
‘Yes, it’s a boy’s name. I can see him now’.
I cast about despairingly since all the boys are away at activities- no boys are about- before giving in.
‘That’s it, I give in, who on earth can you see?’
‘Uncle Scott, silly!’
I look about and think good lord this child is demented. There wasn’t an adult insight, let alone a man! Yet when I stated this, the girl merely remarked ‘oh, but Scott is dead’.
Now, this takes me off guard and I’m thinking ‘hot Aunt Madge, what the blinkin’ Stevens is this lass on about? Is there a ghoulish geezer creeping in the shrubbery or is she actually mad as 6 mad things?’
‘He died here at camp after a branch fell on him’ continues the girl. ‘He was 30 when it happened and I’m the only one in my family that can see him’.
There are not many times in my life that I can truly say I’m stumped but in this moment I truly was. Half of me wanted to caw out, clutching my splitting sides at the sheer ridiculousness of what had just tumbled out of this little girl's mouth, the other half wanted to pour a tub of salt around the girl, run off in the other direction and get Yvette and Karl from Most Haunted to come and exorcise her.
Instead, I think the words ‘oooh, that must be nice’ stumbled out of my mouth (nice one Chelsea) before shunting her towards Athletics and letting the mystification set in.
Hours later when I’d forgotten about my bizarre encounter, the girl’s sister strides in and asserts that her sister has been lying about her Dad and Granddad hurting animals and breaking rabbit’s legs for fun. I make the connection instantly and ask ‘have you got an Uncle Scott by any chance?’. The girl shakes her head in confusion and I exasperate ‘oh my life’ before trying to smother my chuckles in my pillow.
Even later I bump into the raconteur’s counsellors, share the stories and they say ‘Ah yes, she’s just told us that she killed a dog. I think we’ve got a pathological liar on our hands’.
I’ve never believed in pathological liars before, I mean, surely they’re just lying when they say they don’t know they’re lying, right? But hark at this, I believe it now. This girl finds it completely necessary to fabricate these intricate lies and thread them through her everyday activities. I’m not complaining, it currently keeps me from stabbing my eyeballs out with grass reeds from the usual monotony of ‘Look at me swim! Look at me cartwheel! Push me! She hit me! He bit my chin!’ but I am starting to worry that she came up to me last week and whispered ‘I really like you Chelsea’.
Blimey oh reily, what the bloody hell does that mean?!?
Kids say the funniest things
Girl 1: Chelsea, where was William Shakespeare from?
Chelsea: England!
Girl 2: Ohhhhh, I thought he was from Kansas… Oh hang on, that’s the Wizard of Oz isn’t it?!
Girl: I eat fabric softener and carpet cleaner.
The same girl was later asked what the worst thing she had ever eaten was. She answered ‘My Mom’s meatloaf’.
Damn. That must be godawful meatloaf.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Chelsea: Urchkkkkk
Emma: What?
Chelsea: I think I definitely just ate a stick instead of chocolate.
Ricky (in a dazed voice): Yes, the British do like to eat sticks.
Total bug bites to date:
27. Yes, you can say ‘well done Chelsea, you’ve cracked it’ but now my blog url and title seems slightly pointless. Must remember to roll in grass for 20 minutes tomorrow evening. Note to brain: ticks are worth 10 each.
‘Are you sure you can see this thing?’ I asked the girl
‘Yes, it’s a boy’s name. I can see him now’.
I cast about despairingly since all the boys are away at activities- no boys are about- before giving in.
‘That’s it, I give in, who on earth can you see?’
‘Uncle Scott, silly!’
I look about and think good lord this child is demented. There wasn’t an adult insight, let alone a man! Yet when I stated this, the girl merely remarked ‘oh, but Scott is dead’.
Now, this takes me off guard and I’m thinking ‘hot Aunt Madge, what the blinkin’ Stevens is this lass on about? Is there a ghoulish geezer creeping in the shrubbery or is she actually mad as 6 mad things?’
‘He died here at camp after a branch fell on him’ continues the girl. ‘He was 30 when it happened and I’m the only one in my family that can see him’.
There are not many times in my life that I can truly say I’m stumped but in this moment I truly was. Half of me wanted to caw out, clutching my splitting sides at the sheer ridiculousness of what had just tumbled out of this little girl's mouth, the other half wanted to pour a tub of salt around the girl, run off in the other direction and get Yvette and Karl from Most Haunted to come and exorcise her.
Instead, I think the words ‘oooh, that must be nice’ stumbled out of my mouth (nice one Chelsea) before shunting her towards Athletics and letting the mystification set in.
Hours later when I’d forgotten about my bizarre encounter, the girl’s sister strides in and asserts that her sister has been lying about her Dad and Granddad hurting animals and breaking rabbit’s legs for fun. I make the connection instantly and ask ‘have you got an Uncle Scott by any chance?’. The girl shakes her head in confusion and I exasperate ‘oh my life’ before trying to smother my chuckles in my pillow.
Even later I bump into the raconteur’s counsellors, share the stories and they say ‘Ah yes, she’s just told us that she killed a dog. I think we’ve got a pathological liar on our hands’.
I’ve never believed in pathological liars before, I mean, surely they’re just lying when they say they don’t know they’re lying, right? But hark at this, I believe it now. This girl finds it completely necessary to fabricate these intricate lies and thread them through her everyday activities. I’m not complaining, it currently keeps me from stabbing my eyeballs out with grass reeds from the usual monotony of ‘Look at me swim! Look at me cartwheel! Push me! She hit me! He bit my chin!’ but I am starting to worry that she came up to me last week and whispered ‘I really like you Chelsea’.
Blimey oh reily, what the bloody hell does that mean?!?
Kids say the funniest things
Girl 1: Chelsea, where was William Shakespeare from?
Chelsea: England!
Girl 2: Ohhhhh, I thought he was from Kansas… Oh hang on, that’s the Wizard of Oz isn’t it?!
Girl: I eat fabric softener and carpet cleaner.
The same girl was later asked what the worst thing she had ever eaten was. She answered ‘My Mom’s meatloaf’.
Damn. That must be godawful meatloaf.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Chelsea: Urchkkkkk
Emma: What?
Chelsea: I think I definitely just ate a stick instead of chocolate.
Ricky (in a dazed voice): Yes, the British do like to eat sticks.
Total bug bites to date:
27. Yes, you can say ‘well done Chelsea, you’ve cracked it’ but now my blog url and title seems slightly pointless. Must remember to roll in grass for 20 minutes tomorrow evening. Note to brain: ticks are worth 10 each.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Monday 5th July 2010
Udi, the camp programmer and chief teller-offer came to my cabin before and said ‘do you want me to talk to your girls, yeah?’ in his heady Sri Lankan tones. I was a little apprehensive at first since my cabin had actually listened to my blunt words this morning and we’d had a pretty nice day. However, after leaving them during playground time, a ruckus had formed via the medium of: boys. How my girls have managed to avoid all this silly boy nonsense for this long, I’ll never know. Actually, how dare they tease me with pretending they weren’t interested! 3 days left to go, I thought I’d got away scot-free yet alas, bedlam is running amok the cabin in the ghastly memorable form of two girls liking one boy, the boy likes one of the girls, they go out and the other is majorly upset. I managed to cheer up said girl with a sneaky milkyway (this is rapidly turning into my strategy for all stressy situations. Hi, I’m Chelsea and I’m a comfort eater) but with all the gossip and tantrums bundled in there, my cabin was not in a happy place. Due to this, I gave Udi the nod, he slapped Emma and I on the backs and stormed into the rickety white chasm of hostility.
Emma and I, perched on the golf cart outside, gave up trying to listen in after 2 minutes but the fragmented interjections only confirmed that Udi was tackling some heavy stuff.
Twenty minutes later, the door swung open and Udi strides out looking somewhat serene and states ‘they’re good now guys’, before hopping on the golf cart and speeding off to the counsellor quarters.
Emma and I exchange confused looks before anxiously entering the cabin. I imagine a war scene in front of me: pillows torn in half, mattresses bearing smoking wounds and children lying strewn across the parched floor, but in reality everything is just as it was but now, the girls are gathered in the middle giggling together. The only 2 not getting involved are perching on opposite beds before one whispers ‘I’m sorry’ to which the other reciprocates ‘I’m sorry too’. They get up, hug it out and before I know it, I’ve got my arms around them too going ‘Oh my sweet children! What a beautiful moment!’ but in my head I am absolutely and completely perplexed. How on earth did Udi manage it? How on earth did the guy that I know mostly from making inappropriate comments at Oglethorpe manage to subdue a group of 8 girls in a few swift minutes? I’ve been trying to do that all week and kapow, he’s done it: gold medal, personal best and world title goes to Mr. Udi.
I’m back off my break now and they’re all asleep as Al Green simpers away in the background. My sleep playlist for them is called ‘The Mellow Mix’. The Beatles ‘Blackbird’ (my 3rd favourite song ever) has just come on- I’m trying to make them subconsciously like all of my music. I don’t know how many more times I can listen to Usher before I googlemap his house in Atlanta, trek up there and sing ‘OMG’ 2844 times outside his bedroom window. Oh Cold War Kids, ‘Audience of One’! How do they not like these songs?! It is a travesty and that’s the damn truth.
So, it’s 3 days to go and we’re starting to get on. Karen’s going to step in soon and say ‘I told you so’ after she found me desperately clutching onto my mug of PG tips this morning and clawing the table in front. Alas, bring on this ‘norming’ and then maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a decent night’s sleep and my face will stop scaring the 5 year olds. I’m swiftly moving from ‘British Girl’ to ‘Gritish Girl’. Today I looked down and thought ‘Oooh Chelsea, you look tanned’ before I realised that it was just dirt. But hey, the truth is that though I’m lying in a clammy cabin with bugs kamikaze-ing against my computer screen and my face looking like a gaunt vagabond, there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now. So avast ye negativity, set your sails and unburden my shores for I’m going to make sure that the last 3 days of session ‘the things that dreams are made of’. Oh yes Human League, you’ve had it down for years.
Kids say the funniest things
Girl trying to get out of getting her daily calcium intake:
Girl: Milk is worse for you than cigarettes. My Mom told me.
Counsellors say the funniest things
I should explain that we have a big board up in the counsellor room where we can give each other ‘warm & fuzzy’ messages. My ‘warm & fuzzy’ from Ricky read:
‘I’m so glad you’ve got a base tan. Your original color was starting to hurt my eyes’.
Total bug bites to date
27. In the sweet words of The Beatles, ‘it’s getting better all the time’.
Emma and I, perched on the golf cart outside, gave up trying to listen in after 2 minutes but the fragmented interjections only confirmed that Udi was tackling some heavy stuff.
Twenty minutes later, the door swung open and Udi strides out looking somewhat serene and states ‘they’re good now guys’, before hopping on the golf cart and speeding off to the counsellor quarters.
Emma and I exchange confused looks before anxiously entering the cabin. I imagine a war scene in front of me: pillows torn in half, mattresses bearing smoking wounds and children lying strewn across the parched floor, but in reality everything is just as it was but now, the girls are gathered in the middle giggling together. The only 2 not getting involved are perching on opposite beds before one whispers ‘I’m sorry’ to which the other reciprocates ‘I’m sorry too’. They get up, hug it out and before I know it, I’ve got my arms around them too going ‘Oh my sweet children! What a beautiful moment!’ but in my head I am absolutely and completely perplexed. How on earth did Udi manage it? How on earth did the guy that I know mostly from making inappropriate comments at Oglethorpe manage to subdue a group of 8 girls in a few swift minutes? I’ve been trying to do that all week and kapow, he’s done it: gold medal, personal best and world title goes to Mr. Udi.
I’m back off my break now and they’re all asleep as Al Green simpers away in the background. My sleep playlist for them is called ‘The Mellow Mix’. The Beatles ‘Blackbird’ (my 3rd favourite song ever) has just come on- I’m trying to make them subconsciously like all of my music. I don’t know how many more times I can listen to Usher before I googlemap his house in Atlanta, trek up there and sing ‘OMG’ 2844 times outside his bedroom window. Oh Cold War Kids, ‘Audience of One’! How do they not like these songs?! It is a travesty and that’s the damn truth.
So, it’s 3 days to go and we’re starting to get on. Karen’s going to step in soon and say ‘I told you so’ after she found me desperately clutching onto my mug of PG tips this morning and clawing the table in front. Alas, bring on this ‘norming’ and then maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a decent night’s sleep and my face will stop scaring the 5 year olds. I’m swiftly moving from ‘British Girl’ to ‘Gritish Girl’. Today I looked down and thought ‘Oooh Chelsea, you look tanned’ before I realised that it was just dirt. But hey, the truth is that though I’m lying in a clammy cabin with bugs kamikaze-ing against my computer screen and my face looking like a gaunt vagabond, there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now. So avast ye negativity, set your sails and unburden my shores for I’m going to make sure that the last 3 days of session ‘the things that dreams are made of’. Oh yes Human League, you’ve had it down for years.
Kids say the funniest things
Girl trying to get out of getting her daily calcium intake:
Girl: Milk is worse for you than cigarettes. My Mom told me.
Counsellors say the funniest things
I should explain that we have a big board up in the counsellor room where we can give each other ‘warm & fuzzy’ messages. My ‘warm & fuzzy’ from Ricky read:
‘I’m so glad you’ve got a base tan. Your original color was starting to hurt my eyes’.
Total bug bites to date
27. In the sweet words of The Beatles, ‘it’s getting better all the time’.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Sunday 4th July 2010
Oh my god, what a day.
Everything started off as usual by the
flagpole but this time when we assembled, the crowd of kids and counsellors was decked out in red, white and blue. Quite aware that today was official ‘America has finally freed itself from the evil British Day’, I whacked out the old union jack socks, hitched them up over my floral trainers and gallivanted up to the flagpole.
Well, the response I got was hysterical. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on Erik’s face as he said ‘I don’t think we can be friends anymore’. Max actually looked mortally offended whereas Ally merely quipped ‘they’re just a pair of socks guys’.
I soon got my comeuppance though, when a small group of children teemed around my cabin shrieking ‘THE BRITISH ARE COMING! THE BRITISH ARE COMING!’ as Chris the life guard, dressed as a ‘blanket cowboy man’ (it was his superhero disguise, you’ll understand soon) flailed about on a broom, waving an American flag back and forth amongst the rabble. I was also made to apologise to the American flag which Anthony artfully captured on film. After watching, I compared the snippet to the Covergirl advert that America’s Next Top Model have to do in terms of it’s professionability and outstanding honesty.
The fun and games continued and as the evening set in we were sent back to our cabins to prepare for ‘Superhero Hour’. My cabin had to get together and make up new hero alter egos for Emma and I and after their last attempt to express me in creative form (a poem about how badly I smell), I was slightly dubious. However, they uncreatively came up with ‘Age Girl’ for Emma (her powers include looking 18 and 25. Wow) and ‘British Girl’ for me. In fact, I could have quite easily got away with it unscathed but no, I had to push it didn’t I.
As it got to the unveiling of our superheroes, I strode up, punched my fists into an authoritative pose and belted out an ‘interesting’ version of ‘God Save The Queen’ using all archetypical commodities such as crumpets, tea and Hogwarts. I then went on to how I could successfully turn my enemies into fish and chips in a single flick of my foot (one of my campers demonstrated this wonderfully) and the whole thing concluded with me announcing ‘ah, but my greatest strength is that I am accepting of all nations, even on days when they celebrate my defeat’, before ripping open my top to reveal a vest top decorated in a star spangled banner declaring ‘AMERICA IS GREAT!’
Bloody hell, I haven’t even got to the shameful part yet and I’m already cringing at my incredible lack of self-preservation. However, it wasn’t until we’d rolled the girls back to the cabins, got on their pjs and unsuccessfully went in search of fireworks that it all kicked off.
I climbed back into my cabin to find three girls in hysterics on their beds. I see them, am immediately terrified but then remember that I’ve been told about this, it’s July 4th and of course they’re missing their families. I sit down next to one of them and tell her ‘it’s going to be alright, you’ve only got 4 more days before you get to see your family again’. However, after 5 minutes of dedicated cooing and sympathy, I unravel that these girls are not in the slightest bit homesick. These girls are crying because they didn’t get to see any fireworks. I look down at them and think ‘you are 11 and 12 years old for gods sake, get over it’ but instead say ‘guys, there’s nothing you can do about it now so I think we should just move on’. But no. They are still yowling. I don’t know what to do. I cast around the room, see my craft bag, tell the girls to get ready for a firework show and switch off the lights.
In the cramped toilet I’m thinking ‘what the hell am I going to do now’, but within seconds I’m taping and tying blue and green ribbon all over me. I stumble out, grab the torch and spend a minute thrashing about like a retarded penguin whilst singing Hall of the Mountain Troll King. I hesitate as I anticipate their response (I could have just seriously lost my street cred. It’s probably one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done) but then they’re whooping and cheering and calling encore and I think ‘yes, I’ve done it! I’ve smited these snivelling banshees!’. For the encore, I do a delightful rendition of Stauss's The Blue Daube before snapping on the lights and herding them into bed but oh no, they don’t want to go to bed any more.
Pumped up from my follying frolics they’re now chasing each other around the room. Christ. I try and calm them down but it’s past the point where they’ll listen to me now. One girl reveals a surgical glove filled with water and starts dropping it on the floor to which I feint shock. They’re all paying attention now so I think, this is my chance, get them to listen whilst you can. The girl drops it again and I gasp again and they all start to giggle. I look up at them with pleading eyes and simper ‘I think it’s time to go to bed now’ and for a second I think its worked but then another girl swoops down, picks up the swollen glove and starts throwing it about the cabin. She then starts shouting about how she’s going to burst it and with that, the first girl starts starts wailing. Huge, glistening tears are rolling down her cheeks and I’m sat there thinking ‘is she kidding?’ and all I know is that I need to shut this kid up. I demand the glove back and once in the sobbing girl’s arms, she shuts up and starts giggling. Good god! She’s a bloody schitzo! I know now it’s time to call this night to a close so I get up, tell them to get to bed and as I turn my back I hear feet hit the floor and feel a cold rush of water spread over my t-shirt. She’s hit me. That little minion has thrown the glove at me and it’s rapidly dripping down my back. I’m in so much shock that all I can do is start to giggle as the shocked faces of the girls turn into howling grins riddled with menacing exchanges. Oh god, what have I started now.
In seconds, a girl has ran to the bathroom and the next thing I know she’s dousing the first girl in a cup of water- this is getting out of hand. I’m shouting now and as I go to grab the cup of water, hysterical fit girl dashes in front of me and BAM. She’s slipped over and she’s on the floor. Oh my god, oh my god, she’s dead, she’s dead. Hang on. She’s moving. She’s laughing. Everyone’s laughing bar me in fact. They’re clinging to each other as the girl scrabbles about on the floor, writhing in the mess. I’m just stood there absolutely horrified at everything that’s happening. I demand that everyone stops what they’re doing and for the injured, sardonic child to go outside and wait for me. I check she’s okay, I scold her but in retrospect I am far too light on her. I go back in, mop up the mess, command the girls into their beds and switch off the lights. After another lung popping baying fit, they’re still messing about when Emma returns off her break and I look at her, exasperated. I always thought I could deal with kids, especially those closer to my age but tonight, I have officially had enough.
As I slope off, I feel exhausted and delve into the staff fridge for 26 milkyways (mars bars to you and me) and collapse in an armchair. Sadly (or perhaps gladly), my night is merely a hiccup in the works compared to other counsellors so I just sit there, taking in the stories of demonic children and think ‘oh sweet Friday, hurry up and quell these childish ordeals’. We’re apparently supposed to go through this stage with the kids but I’m very much over this ‘storming’ and ready for the ‘norming’. I’m going to sleep fingers, toes, hair, eyes and ribs crossed tonight that I’ll wake up and everything will be hunky-dory.
So, perhaps a bit of a depressing entry tonight so I shall end on a few of the brilliant things that have kept me going today:
Kids say the funniest things
Ricky: Who can tell me the oldest city in America?
Boy: CHINA!
Girl: How do you spell USA?
Chris: So guys, who did America gain independence from?
Kids: CHELSEAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Whilst a group of kids are talking about burgers
Girl: I talk to trees
Counsellors say the funniest things
When talking about Emma, my co-counsellor, and I
Udi: You guys go together like water and milk.
Karen: So who knows what 4th July is?
Me: It’s the day you celebrate being independent from Britain.
Whilst Sarah and I are showering, Gavin comes in and begins to talk
Gavin: Arh, I’ve just put some hydrocortisone on to help my itchy feet.
Sarah: What, hold on. You’ve got HIV?
Total bug bites to date
26. I look like I’ve got chicken pox.
Everything started off as usual by the
flagpole but this time when we assembled, the crowd of kids and counsellors was decked out in red, white and blue. Quite aware that today was official ‘America has finally freed itself from the evil British Day’, I whacked out the old union jack socks, hitched them up over my floral trainers and gallivanted up to the flagpole. Well, the response I got was hysterical. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on Erik’s face as he said ‘I don’t think we can be friends anymore’. Max actually looked mortally offended whereas Ally merely quipped ‘they’re just a pair of socks guys’.
I soon got my comeuppance though, when a small group of children teemed around my cabin shrieking ‘THE BRITISH ARE COMING! THE BRITISH ARE COMING!’ as Chris the life guard, dressed as a ‘blanket cowboy man’ (it was his superhero disguise, you’ll understand soon) flailed about on a broom, waving an American flag back and forth amongst the rabble. I was also made to apologise to the American flag which Anthony artfully captured on film. After watching, I compared the snippet to the Covergirl advert that America’s Next Top Model have to do in terms of it’s professionability and outstanding honesty.
The fun and games continued and as the evening set in we were sent back to our cabins to prepare for ‘Superhero Hour’. My cabin had to get together and make up new hero alter egos for Emma and I and after their last attempt to express me in creative form (a poem about how badly I smell), I was slightly dubious. However, they uncreatively came up with ‘Age Girl’ for Emma (her powers include looking 18 and 25. Wow) and ‘British Girl’ for me. In fact, I could have quite easily got away with it unscathed but no, I had to push it didn’t I.
As it got to the unveiling of our superheroes, I strode up, punched my fists into an authoritative pose and belted out an ‘interesting’ version of ‘God Save The Queen’ using all archetypical commodities such as crumpets, tea and Hogwarts. I then went on to how I could successfully turn my enemies into fish and chips in a single flick of my foot (one of my campers demonstrated this wonderfully) and the whole thing concluded with me announcing ‘ah, but my greatest strength is that I am accepting of all nations, even on days when they celebrate my defeat’, before ripping open my top to reveal a vest top decorated in a star spangled banner declaring ‘AMERICA IS GREAT!’
Bloody hell, I haven’t even got to the shameful part yet and I’m already cringing at my incredible lack of self-preservation. However, it wasn’t until we’d rolled the girls back to the cabins, got on their pjs and unsuccessfully went in search of fireworks that it all kicked off.
I climbed back into my cabin to find three girls in hysterics on their beds. I see them, am immediately terrified but then remember that I’ve been told about this, it’s July 4th and of course they’re missing their families. I sit down next to one of them and tell her ‘it’s going to be alright, you’ve only got 4 more days before you get to see your family again’. However, after 5 minutes of dedicated cooing and sympathy, I unravel that these girls are not in the slightest bit homesick. These girls are crying because they didn’t get to see any fireworks. I look down at them and think ‘you are 11 and 12 years old for gods sake, get over it’ but instead say ‘guys, there’s nothing you can do about it now so I think we should just move on’. But no. They are still yowling. I don’t know what to do. I cast around the room, see my craft bag, tell the girls to get ready for a firework show and switch off the lights.
In the cramped toilet I’m thinking ‘what the hell am I going to do now’, but within seconds I’m taping and tying blue and green ribbon all over me. I stumble out, grab the torch and spend a minute thrashing about like a retarded penguin whilst singing Hall of the Mountain Troll King. I hesitate as I anticipate their response (I could have just seriously lost my street cred. It’s probably one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done) but then they’re whooping and cheering and calling encore and I think ‘yes, I’ve done it! I’ve smited these snivelling banshees!’. For the encore, I do a delightful rendition of Stauss's The Blue Daube before snapping on the lights and herding them into bed but oh no, they don’t want to go to bed any more.
Pumped up from my follying frolics they’re now chasing each other around the room. Christ. I try and calm them down but it’s past the point where they’ll listen to me now. One girl reveals a surgical glove filled with water and starts dropping it on the floor to which I feint shock. They’re all paying attention now so I think, this is my chance, get them to listen whilst you can. The girl drops it again and I gasp again and they all start to giggle. I look up at them with pleading eyes and simper ‘I think it’s time to go to bed now’ and for a second I think its worked but then another girl swoops down, picks up the swollen glove and starts throwing it about the cabin. She then starts shouting about how she’s going to burst it and with that, the first girl starts starts wailing. Huge, glistening tears are rolling down her cheeks and I’m sat there thinking ‘is she kidding?’ and all I know is that I need to shut this kid up. I demand the glove back and once in the sobbing girl’s arms, she shuts up and starts giggling. Good god! She’s a bloody schitzo! I know now it’s time to call this night to a close so I get up, tell them to get to bed and as I turn my back I hear feet hit the floor and feel a cold rush of water spread over my t-shirt. She’s hit me. That little minion has thrown the glove at me and it’s rapidly dripping down my back. I’m in so much shock that all I can do is start to giggle as the shocked faces of the girls turn into howling grins riddled with menacing exchanges. Oh god, what have I started now.
In seconds, a girl has ran to the bathroom and the next thing I know she’s dousing the first girl in a cup of water- this is getting out of hand. I’m shouting now and as I go to grab the cup of water, hysterical fit girl dashes in front of me and BAM. She’s slipped over and she’s on the floor. Oh my god, oh my god, she’s dead, she’s dead. Hang on. She’s moving. She’s laughing. Everyone’s laughing bar me in fact. They’re clinging to each other as the girl scrabbles about on the floor, writhing in the mess. I’m just stood there absolutely horrified at everything that’s happening. I demand that everyone stops what they’re doing and for the injured, sardonic child to go outside and wait for me. I check she’s okay, I scold her but in retrospect I am far too light on her. I go back in, mop up the mess, command the girls into their beds and switch off the lights. After another lung popping baying fit, they’re still messing about when Emma returns off her break and I look at her, exasperated. I always thought I could deal with kids, especially those closer to my age but tonight, I have officially had enough.
As I slope off, I feel exhausted and delve into the staff fridge for 26 milkyways (mars bars to you and me) and collapse in an armchair. Sadly (or perhaps gladly), my night is merely a hiccup in the works compared to other counsellors so I just sit there, taking in the stories of demonic children and think ‘oh sweet Friday, hurry up and quell these childish ordeals’. We’re apparently supposed to go through this stage with the kids but I’m very much over this ‘storming’ and ready for the ‘norming’. I’m going to sleep fingers, toes, hair, eyes and ribs crossed tonight that I’ll wake up and everything will be hunky-dory.
So, perhaps a bit of a depressing entry tonight so I shall end on a few of the brilliant things that have kept me going today:
Kids say the funniest things
Ricky: Who can tell me the oldest city in America?
Boy: CHINA!
Girl: How do you spell USA?
Chris: So guys, who did America gain independence from?
Kids: CHELSEAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Whilst a group of kids are talking about burgers
Girl: I talk to trees
Counsellors say the funniest things
When talking about Emma, my co-counsellor, and I
Udi: You guys go together like water and milk.
Karen: So who knows what 4th July is?
Me: It’s the day you celebrate being independent from Britain.
Whilst Sarah and I are showering, Gavin comes in and begins to talk
Gavin: Arh, I’ve just put some hydrocortisone on to help my itchy feet.
Sarah: What, hold on. You’ve got HIV?
Total bug bites to date
26. I look like I’ve got chicken pox.
Friday, 2 July 2010
Thursday 1st July 2010
I am deliciously delirious. Why I thought agreeing to be the editor of a careers section for my friends finance website when I knew I’d be in America for the deadline was a good idea, I’ll never know. (I’ll also never know why I’m writing for a finance website since the only finance I’m concerned with is payday and the 0800 number for Natwest’s overdraft service). However, 11,062 words later, it is done and I am smug with knowing that I am a multi-tasking harridan. Yet, combined with rigorous swing pushing trials and laborious hot glue gunning of broken shoes, I am officially off my face on sleep deprivation. A few minutes ago my fellow counsellor Anthony just told me he couldn’t deal with me as he’d spent all day putting up with kids and on his break he needed some solace. I was close to arguing back until I glimpsed Austin, one of the camp chefs, K.Oed on the couch bearing a tattoo of ‘I ♥ CUPCAKES BADLY’ in bright pink sharpie and thought ‘he’s got a point there’.
I did manage to sensible up enough to get some details about the accommodation in which we’re staying at next weekend which is officially booked meaning I am OFFICIALLY going to New York, New York! At last, I don’t have to feel the need to correct people that I’m not living in a penthouse suite for the summer but in a creaky wooden cabin! Of course, I’m actually staying in a hostel in Brooklyn but that’s a step up, right?
But enough about next weekend, I’ve still got a bloody week left with the kids!! It’s not that I don’t like it anymore; it’s just that BY GUM children are hard work. When I go home I’m going to give the ol’ Don and Jon Dick Team a high five and a 24oz bag of skittles and say ‘Oh beautiful parents, you deserve this hoard of artificial colours and general sweet pestilence, you brave, noble folk you’. My latest method in getting my campers attention is to break down on the floor crying whilst wailing ‘why don’t you looooveee me anymoooooreeeee?’ So far it’s proving quite effective but then I’m getting smothered by 8 girls and thinking ‘MAYDAY! MAYDAY! I’VE GOT AN ABUDANE OF SWEATY CHILDREN TRYING TO CONSOLE ME!’
The hardest thing is when they don’t listen. Combined with their incredible ability to find a reason to go to the nurse for anything (‘I’ve got a headache’/‘My stomach hurts’/‘I’ve got a leaf stuck in my nostril’), I find it hard to not roll my eyes and tell them to stop being lame and ‘man up’. Desperate for a break, I found myself taking a girl to the infirmary late the other night for headache tablets to only find out that she was pining for Tylenol at breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day too. I’m not sure if the new scheme for socialised healthcare includes painkiller addiction but if so, I’m signing this girl up pronto.
However, I shall not dwell on the negatives. One absolutely wonderful thing about being in America and looking after kids are the names. Ohhhh the names. I could do a terrific parody of Mambo No. 5 with the array of exotic names we’ve got here: (Tamazzia, Ashanti, Shatoya) but my absolute favourite is a boy named Angel. Now this may not seem that incredibly diverse at first, but wait until you hear this: Angel’s brother is called Damien. Bloody hell.
Another precious moment was the dance on the basketball courts last night. Considering we’ve been warned to have no relationships with our fellow counsellors and to keep our eyes on the older boys and girls, they could not have picked a more inappropriate bunch of songs. It’s funny how you glaze over lyrics but when a 9 year old girl is belting out the words ‘I’m gonna get you crunk, crunk. Boys gonna touch my junk, junk’ that you think ‘ah, so this isn’t a song about a barn dance and cheese and pineapple on sticks’. However, this isn’t the worst of it- we haven’t even got to the dance moves yet. Some of them were good, some of them were really good (a ten year old boy and girl were having a dance battle in the middle of the playground which was quite frankly youtube quality), but some of them were just absolutely eye-poppingly terrifying. I felt like yelping and covering up my own eyes, never mind my 12 year old campers. If I had thrown out moves like that I would definitely and absolutely be fired within seconds. Geeze.
Before I slump off into a mad pit of rampant idiocy, I’ll update you on the latest details:
Kids say the funniest things
Whilst trying to tell off a girl for hitting her sister with her flip flops, the sister replies: ‘I love getting hit by flip flops’. Thanks kid.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Whilst discussing our most prized possessions, Sandro confesses ‘my most prized possession is my Mom because she’s the one that popped me out’.
Head. Image. Mind cringe.
British words and phrases that Americans find funny
Dodgy, minging, grim, bin, skip and torch.
I also found out today that if you call a particularly mucky girl a ‘skank’, it does not mean she’s dirty, it means she’s a prostitute.
American words and phrases that I’ve found hilarious
‘You’re right, it is quite frigid out this morning’
‘In Britain you wear fanny packs all the time, don’t you?’ I should bloody hope not.
Total bug bites to date
21
Bish bash bosh.
I did manage to sensible up enough to get some details about the accommodation in which we’re staying at next weekend which is officially booked meaning I am OFFICIALLY going to New York, New York! At last, I don’t have to feel the need to correct people that I’m not living in a penthouse suite for the summer but in a creaky wooden cabin! Of course, I’m actually staying in a hostel in Brooklyn but that’s a step up, right?
But enough about next weekend, I’ve still got a bloody week left with the kids!! It’s not that I don’t like it anymore; it’s just that BY GUM children are hard work. When I go home I’m going to give the ol’ Don and Jon Dick Team a high five and a 24oz bag of skittles and say ‘Oh beautiful parents, you deserve this hoard of artificial colours and general sweet pestilence, you brave, noble folk you’. My latest method in getting my campers attention is to break down on the floor crying whilst wailing ‘why don’t you looooveee me anymoooooreeeee?’ So far it’s proving quite effective but then I’m getting smothered by 8 girls and thinking ‘MAYDAY! MAYDAY! I’VE GOT AN ABUDANE OF SWEATY CHILDREN TRYING TO CONSOLE ME!’
The hardest thing is when they don’t listen. Combined with their incredible ability to find a reason to go to the nurse for anything (‘I’ve got a headache’/‘My stomach hurts’/‘I’ve got a leaf stuck in my nostril’), I find it hard to not roll my eyes and tell them to stop being lame and ‘man up’. Desperate for a break, I found myself taking a girl to the infirmary late the other night for headache tablets to only find out that she was pining for Tylenol at breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day too. I’m not sure if the new scheme for socialised healthcare includes painkiller addiction but if so, I’m signing this girl up pronto.
However, I shall not dwell on the negatives. One absolutely wonderful thing about being in America and looking after kids are the names. Ohhhh the names. I could do a terrific parody of Mambo No. 5 with the array of exotic names we’ve got here: (Tamazzia, Ashanti, Shatoya) but my absolute favourite is a boy named Angel. Now this may not seem that incredibly diverse at first, but wait until you hear this: Angel’s brother is called Damien. Bloody hell.
Another precious moment was the dance on the basketball courts last night. Considering we’ve been warned to have no relationships with our fellow counsellors and to keep our eyes on the older boys and girls, they could not have picked a more inappropriate bunch of songs. It’s funny how you glaze over lyrics but when a 9 year old girl is belting out the words ‘I’m gonna get you crunk, crunk. Boys gonna touch my junk, junk’ that you think ‘ah, so this isn’t a song about a barn dance and cheese and pineapple on sticks’. However, this isn’t the worst of it- we haven’t even got to the dance moves yet. Some of them were good, some of them were really good (a ten year old boy and girl were having a dance battle in the middle of the playground which was quite frankly youtube quality), but some of them were just absolutely eye-poppingly terrifying. I felt like yelping and covering up my own eyes, never mind my 12 year old campers. If I had thrown out moves like that I would definitely and absolutely be fired within seconds. Geeze.
Before I slump off into a mad pit of rampant idiocy, I’ll update you on the latest details:
Kids say the funniest things
Whilst trying to tell off a girl for hitting her sister with her flip flops, the sister replies: ‘I love getting hit by flip flops’. Thanks kid.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Whilst discussing our most prized possessions, Sandro confesses ‘my most prized possession is my Mom because she’s the one that popped me out’.
Head. Image. Mind cringe.
British words and phrases that Americans find funny
Dodgy, minging, grim, bin, skip and torch.
I also found out today that if you call a particularly mucky girl a ‘skank’, it does not mean she’s dirty, it means she’s a prostitute.
American words and phrases that I’ve found hilarious
‘You’re right, it is quite frigid out this morning’
‘In Britain you wear fanny packs all the time, don’t you?’ I should bloody hope not.
Total bug bites to date
21
Bish bash bosh.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Monday 28th June 2010
I’m swaddled in mosquito netting. The 14 bites on one leg are enough to vouch that I am a tasty human being. My blood must be to them like ketchup is to kids.
The kids.
Day one of camp is over, it’s 10:26pm and I am absolutely bloody knackered. It has been none stop ‘what are we doing next’, ‘I’m bored’, ‘I’m hungry’ and ‘I feel sick’. I’ve lugged bags into cabins, spooned food onto plates, pretended to be a grandpa shark, been imitated by about 12 girls at once and high-fived until my hands were sore but you know what? I’ve bloody loved it.
The day started early it wasn’t long until I was ‘chirpy Chelsea’, welcoming in the girls of Monroe to their humble abode. Emma and I got the older girls which I thought was a godsend until I realised today that they are so much harder to motivate- if one wants to sit out, they’ll all want to sit out. There were so many times today when I was prancing about singing ‘Peel banana, peel peel banana’ and I looked about to see my table slumped all over the place. In fact, there were several times where I thought ‘where the bloody hell are you getting this energy from Chelsea, you mad cow. You’ve had 5 hours sleep; no PG tips and you’re punching the air like you’re Rambo on acid’.
PG TIPS.
Karen has put aside some PG tips for me tomorrow and a big mug because she knows I’m hampering for it. I think I love her.
I’m being called by the sweet enticement of sleep but before I indulge in my netty boudoir, I shall summarise my 3 top moments today.
1. Kids say the funniest things
Things overheard today include ‘break it down girlfriend’ (said by small boy to older girl), ‘my armpits smell like relish’ (which unfortunately concluded in a girl shoving her armpit in my face and I can verify that they did indeed smell like relish) and in answer to ‘what should we not do at the campfire?’ I heard ‘punch the fire’. Yes, small children. Please refrain from punching the fire.
2. Chel rhymes with smell
This evening we had a ‘fun open fire’ at 7:20pm where every cabin had to get up and perform a skit. However, the fun did not end there as the counsellors were also asked to prepare a little summin’ summin’ to show to the campers. As I sat about my cabin this morning I started wailing ‘but I haaaaave no talentttttt’. However, my smart little campers said ‘Why don’t you hula hoop and we’ll make a poem up about you that you have to do at the same time?’ Ace.
So, 20 minutes of giggling in a corner later and they hand me a poem. Now, as I said, I’ve put my all into it today. I mean, I pretended to be a bloody kayote at one point for gods sake, and you know what the poem was about? Well, I’ll tell you how it started:
Hi there, my name is Chel
You may not know me well
But I’m about to tell
You how I really smell
I think you get the gist. So yes, this evening I got up in front of 60 campers and all my counsellors that I’d like to think I’ve earned the respect of and recited a poem including lines such as ‘when I was 2, I fell in poo’ and ‘when I was 13, I smelt like dead spleen’ whilst waggling my arse about in a dainty green hoop.
I’ve just posted a bulletin in the local newspaper here. It reads:
MISSING: CHELSEA DICKENSON’S SHAME.
3. Silence is golden
My last and most precious moment of the day would have to be right now. I just had the most beautiful shower (I was starting to fear that my poem was verging on the truth a little too much for my liking) and the girls are just starting to make those snoozing sounds that mean you’re in a deep slumber.
Oh sleep, glorious sleep. I nuzzle into thine bobbly blanket and I say to thee, let me not perish no more in your whimsical creeks and let me get some bloody shuteye, you massive precarious munter.
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