My
name is Rebecca, of course, or Rebekah or Becky as it takes me. I am in my
twenties, which is all you really need to know, thank you very much, and I live
in Northern England.
My favourite books
are Down and Out in Paris and London, Interview With the Vampire, Survivor,
The God of Small Things and 1984.
I own a dog, Baloo,
and a cat, Cleo.
I love these
things: English mornings in Spring, the look of innocent love in a dog’s eyes,
Paris, a damned good book, all things French, really, learning new languages—Kalimera!—watching
the sea from a quiet Greek restaurant, writing, drawing, singing tunelessly to
songs, great cinema, laying on the grass in my garden and watching the stars on
lazy summer nights, snow, chocolates from Maxims de Paris, New Year.
I loathe these
things: lager louts, hunting,
polystyrene, Saturday night television, vodka, cabbage, Sidari in Corfu,
actually paying to see grimy, filthy Sidari in Corfu, ‘presents’ from
the cat, Christmas’ rampant commercialisation, Mary Sue writing—whether in fics
or a book, cruelty to humans or animals of any kind, quests for oil
masquerading as righteous wars, loss of culture, imposition of English
‘culture’ on places such as Spain and Greece, rude people, marzipan.
I like being
eclectic, though my tendency to switch my train of thought or
tospeakataveryfastrate proves difficult when talking on the telephone to my
friends from Manchester and Yorkshire.
Albania
is the most random place I’ve ever been to.
Once, when I was
feeling down, the university offered to let me talk to a counsellor. I talked and talked and talked, but he
didn’t really give any input. This disappointed me greatly. I would love to be
psychoanalysed.
I like writing
stupid haikus. They have absolutely no artistic worth, but they make me and my
friends laugh.
Website is all grey
Less through a
choice, than I am
Just crap at design
You see?
I have known my
flatmate, Chris, since I was thirteen. We started off as Best Enemies, when he
kicked my chair in French and I shouted at him, then he put all random bits of
paper in my desk and we didn’t talk for like, a day—which is a lot in our
time—and stuff. Chris is mental and apt to be at turns funny, charming and
fucking annoying, but hey, that’s what friends are for, right? Llama.
Don’t ask.
Trust me.
I would love to
write for The Guardian, but I will probably end up as a bin lady or
something, due to my overwhelming ability to underachieve when I know I am capable
of more.
One day, though, I will
emigrate. Just not to Corfu.
