Battenburg on a Park Bench.

I'm pretty sure that I'm gonna make Battenburg Cake tomorrow - although without the marzipan, cuz I hate that. There's a joy in Battenburg cake - I used to eat it at my Nan's. I think it's the symmetry of the pink and yellow squares. They make me feel young.

Me & My best friend once sat on a park bench eating a cheapo Battenburg once, laughing at all the dull people walking past us. That makes me feel young, too.

Anyway, it doesn't look too tricky. Famous last words.

I'll let you know how it goes.

I Come Not To Praise Ceaser, But To Bury Him.

That makes it sound like I didn't enjoy it, which is not true. I did, although it wasn't quite as OhMyGod-You-Must-Go-And-See-That good as I expected. It took me a while to get into it, but when I did I was impressed. It was a good staging of it, I, in my humble opinion, thought, although it was very dark and quite scary at times. & the stage was swimming with (very realistic) fake blood at the end.

I tell you what though, Sam Troughton was completely wasted on Robin Hood for 3 years! He was playing Brutus, and was hands down the best member of the cast. I just sat there thinking "Wow. This guy can act. What on earth was he doing playing second-fiddle to Jonas Armstrong on a Saturday Night TV Show?"

Not of course, that I have anything against Saturday Night TV, I'm one of it's biggest fans. Especially, especially Doctor Who. And I had a Robin Hood obsession during series 2 (Harry Lloyd, yum.) But anyway. Not the time.

So, to sum-up, it was good, but not amazing. I did love the way they staged the "Friends, Romans, Countrymen" speech, it was nothing like I imagined it.

Beware the Ides of March...

I'm going to see Julius Ceaser at the RSC Courtyard Theatre today. I love Shakespeare, and I love living in Stratford because it means I get to go and see it as often as I can afford (which will be more when I'm 16 and get £5 tickets.)

The last time I did Julius Ceaser was in my year 9 English class - and our group had to preform the "Brutus in an honourable man..." speech, where I was a pleb. I thought it was fab, and wonderfully political, so I'm quite excited about seeing the first half. We only studied he first act, though, so the second bit is a bit more of a mystery. I fear the worst - although I feared the worst with The Winters Tale and I loved that.

I've spent the morning reading the reviews, the folowing is from The Telegraph:

"Greg Hicks powerfully captures the mixture of grandiosity and fearful frailty that makes up Caesar's character, while Sam Troughton finds a similar ambivalence in Brutus, a genuinely good man fatally flawed by both self-righteousness and an inability to make the right decisions. John Mackay suggests both the chippiness and the emotional neediness of Cassius, and Darrell D'Silva is a superb Mark Antony, perpetually hung-over, bleary, overweight and a shameless rabble-rouser of an orator. The moment when he picks up a severed head, lying conveniently to hand on the battlefield, and casually throws it at Octavius Caesar as if it were a rugby ball, encapsulates the bitter, violent, blackly comic atmosphere of this production."

I can't wait.

And in other news...

I'm going to be published.
I think I'm probably still in shock, even though I've been typing it all day.
I wrote a poem miles ago, and then I got an email about this Poetry Rivals competition, and thought; 'what the hell, there's no harm in entering'. So I sent it off and promptly forgot about it.
This morning, however, I went down to microwave my tea and found quite a lot of post on the doormat, so I made sure there wasn't anything for me. Well, strictly speaking, there wasn't, but there was a letter adressed to "The Parents Of..." me. Now, naturelle mon, I freaked out a bit, thinking it might be something from my new school saying I couldn't go (which would, in part, be a blessed releif), but when my mum opened it, it was from Poetry Rivals saying there going to publish me.
I'm really excited. I mean, they haven't picked the top 50 to go to the Grand Final, and I'm almost certain that I won't get into that, because I'm only 15 and still a bit crap, but... I don't care.
I'm going to be published. I'm so happy for me.

This feels better than Christmas in New York. >>

Could I be any more of a teenager?

Well, actually, I probably could. I'm not a terribly typical teenager, but right now I feel like one.

I went out shopping with one of my wilder friends, and finally plucked up the courage to buy a bottle of pink hairdye.

Cool.

So I ended up sneaking ot home and hiding it in my bathroom cabinet so my Mum won't see; it felt like something from a tweenage film. It was fun =]

Actually, I now feel compelled to confide with the faceless internet why I want to dye my hair pink.

I kind of want to be like Tonks from Harry Potter.

Because, well, she's so damn cool. And yes, I know I'm a nerd. You'd be suprised at how much that doesn't bother me =].

BTW: I'm totally aware that this girl isn't me, I'm just using the image for illustrative purposes.

Mine's a Shirley.

My faveourite drink is a Shirley Temple.

I can really only drink them when I go to America, because when you ask for them here barmen tend to grunt and shrug in the negative. But, today, I found some Grenadine in lovely Sainsbury's, and Mom bought some cocktail cherries, so tonight I'll treat myself to one. Yum.

Charlotte's Recipie for a Shirley Temple.

1. Get a tall glass. Not a wine glass.

2. STUFF it full of icecubes.

3. Pour Grenadine into the bottom of the glass (over the ice). Put about as much in as if you were making squash.

4. Fill the rest of it with Ginger Ale. (This can be substituted for Lemonade or 7-Up)

5. Put 3 (3 or more) cocktail cherries into the glass. You should eat the first one after you've had the first sip, the second one in the middle of the drink and the last one at the very end, so it's all filled up with Grenadine goodness.

6. Drink through a straw. And enjoy.

Try it, honestly, it's soooo good.

Hey there, Delilah.

My long period of absence is due to my almost 4 week holiday, travelling round America. But don't worry, this isn't going to be a "What I did on my holiday" post. I realise hearing about other people's vacations is only marginally more enjoyable than feigning interest and amusement at their holiday pictures.

No, I want to talk about my hair today.

On my last day in Denver, I had an appointment at a hair salon (http://www.avedaacademydenver.com/) for a trim of my fringe, which was getting painfully long and tickly. By the way, in America, they call a fringe 'bangs', which made me laugh so hard. The hairdresser totally didn't know what was going on.

Anyway, I went in their with hair that was pretty long (a bit longer than the bottom of my heart) and came out with 8.5 inches of my dark, silky crowning glory on the cutting room floor. And I didn't even feel sad. The hairdresser (who had amazing hair herself, all black and short and Tonks-ish) was a bit unsure when I said 'I want you to cut it all off', but she did it. So I spent 3 hours staring at myself in the mirror, not fun; after about 20mns you begin to notice horrific imperfections in yourself that I'm sure no-one else ever spots. At one point she turned me around and pointed at all these dark curls on the tiles and was like: 'that's your hair'. It didn't bother me, After all, I've had it for almost 16 years. I was just excited to be something new.

And it looks SO good!

I've got this little bob now, all sleek and shiny and terribly grown up.

But, ever since I've gotton it cut, people have been assuming there's some emotional turmoil in my life. No, I haven't broken up with anyone. No, my parents aren't getting divorced. I just cut my hair off, something I've been longing to do for years.

There's some feeling behind the act of a woman cutting off her hair; it's something quite primal. A womans long hair is a sign of her femininity, her sexuality, so when she cuts it off she must be cutting herself off from the opposite sex. History puts a lot of emphasis on the importance of hair. In Samson and Delilah (note the title of this blog), Samson loses his strength when Delilah cuts his hair. In fairytales, princesses are beautified with their long flowing hair (usually blonde, but don't get me started on the way society projects an image to girls of blonde being The Ideal). In magical folklore, hair is often needed in spells to increase their power. The message is clear: hair is important.

And it is, but when you've got hair like mine it's also a pain. My hair is thick. I know lots of people say that, but mine is the kind of hair that means hairdressers call over the over people in the salon to "get a look at this!" I'm a (pale) white girl with a mix of English and Irish ancestory, and yet my hair has been described as African American. It knots like hell and takes an age to dry and straighten. My new hair, however, is completely different. It feels thinner, lighter, in better condition. I can actually pull a comb through it (oh, the novelty). I cut mine for conveiniance, but also because I wanted too.

I'm going to a new school in September, I'm turning 16 in a couple of weeks. I was desperately in need of a fresh new me. Perhaps, as well, because everything else in my life is changing around me (not neccisarrily for the better) I wanted to change something that I could control, on my own terms. But, even though the cut was partly due to something more physcological, it sure as hell wasn't to do with other people.

Hair might be the symbol of womanly virtues, but I think I can keep mine without an acre of dead cells growing from my skull. I'm not waiting at the top of the tower for my White Knight to decide he's ready to come and rescue me; I've climbed out the window myself.

I've de-Rapunzel'ed myself, and I don't regret it.