Books books books

So I've recently had a little free time, and have become quite devoted to my e-reader. In the spirit of all things bookish, I've decided to compile a list of book recommendations for those who are usually devoted to their TVs :P note: this is not a list of my favourite books, just ones that I would recommend to people :)

If you like CSI then read Tess Gerritsen
Much like CSI, Tess Gerritsen's novels are light thrillers that usually involve dead bodies and are incredibly easy to follow. Those who really enjoy detective series might recognise her lead characters...Rizzoli and Isles :)

If you like Game of Thrones then read Phillipa Gregory
The first time I tried to watch Game of Thrones, I was put off by the unnecessary sex and violence. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for gratuity if it moves the story forward. Then my mom explained the plotline and I realised that the GOT narrative is based on true historical facts: the War of the Roses. Even the names are similar: Lannister (GOT): Lancaster (history). Stark (GOT): York (history). Although the stories aren't exactly the same, fans of GOT will love Phillipa Gregory's series on the Cousins War. Complex alliances, arranged marriages and secret meetings between various factions who are all fighting for the throne; what's not to love?

If you like romantic comedies then try Marian Keyes
Marian Keyes novels are practically a genre on their own. They're easy to read and full of young city-dwelling women who buy lots of shoes and have boyfriend troubles. But most -if not all - of her novels tackle deeper problems as well, such as drug addiction, death and abortion. The novels are elegantly crafted to make you laugh like a lunatic, and still leave you with something to think about. Great for lazy summer afternoons.

If you like scifi movies then try The Long Earth by Terry Pratchett
Terry Pratchett is my hero, and I'm happy to try anything he writes. I would read the doodles in his margins. The Long Earth series is unusual for him, and is a wonderful mixture of fantasy and scifi without the futuristic (and usually incorrect) science jargon. The novel starts with the unoriginal idea of an infinite number of parallel worlds existing, and then deviates into a complex narrative of pioneering and colonisation. I loved it :) Note: the sequel, The Long War, is not nearly as good.

If you like tragic romance then read Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Zafon
I am an avid book worm and have read many, many, many books in my 22 years. So I say this after careful consideration and much soul-searching:
THIS IS ONE OF THE GREATEST BOOKS I'VE EVER READ. Top three on my list at least, if not the very greatest novel ever.
It tells the story of Daniel Sempere, a young man in Barcelona in the early 1900s, and his quest to find out about the mysterious author Julian Carax. It has been described as Gothic storytelling, and it truly is some of the most beautiful writing I have ever read. I especially recommend this for Twilight fans, so that they can see what real tragic, Gothic writing is all about.
Words don't do it justice. Just read it. Everyone.

If you like superhero movies then read American Gods by Neil Gaiman
This novel was greatly celebrated when it came out, but I only had the opportunity to read it earlier this year. The story is about an invisible war between the old gods who were brought to American with various different cultures (Norse, Hindu, "African") and new gods that have sprung up out of modern American culture. It's not quite a superhero movie, but if you enjoyed Thor - and if you like Classics - you'll love it.

If you like horror movies then read Stephen King
I don't care what anyone says: Stephen King is the master of horror. Movies based on his novels include Carrie, Dreamcatcher, Children of the Corn, Cujo, Pet Sematary and many others. And, of course, who could forget the famous evil clown from It? In fact, start with the novel It. Creepy as hell, in a subtle, gets-into-your-nightmares kind of way. With writing that focuses on our deep-down, visceral fears, no one will ever be able to terrify you the way Stephen King will.

If you like philisophical French movies then read The Brothers Karazmov by Dostoyevsky
Apparently it's really good. I wouldn't know. I haven't finished it yet. Dense writing, lots of background info, and not as much philosophical debate as I was hoping for. Still. Some people seem to like Dostoyevsky.,

If you like porn then read Fifty Shades of Grey
I tried it and couldn't get past the first chapter. The storyline is terrible and the writing is worse. But if you're looking for nothing but sex, then this is all you need.

How to interact with your tutor

Back in 2011, when I was in second year, I had just started seeing a certain young man. He was still staying in residence, and one night he convinced me to stay over with him. Nothing R-rated happened that night (much to his chagrin, no doubt) and when I woke up the next morning, I needed the bathroom. As I had no desire to wander aimlessly around a guys' res, bumping into hungover dudes wearing nothing but towels, I convinced him to roll out of bed and show me where the bathroom was. I followed him into the corridor and moments later walked straight into my French tutor, who was emerging from a room a little way down the corridor.

Picture it: finding yourself face-to-face with your tutor, at 6am on a Saturday morning, in a guys' res, clearly wearing last night's clothes and make-up. This went beyond an awkward turtle moment; as a friend of mine used to say: "Awkward turkey - for special occasions!"

Luckily for me, I happened to know my tutor quite well as he was actually in my year and I'd partied with him and mutual friends a few times before. But when I walked into the tut the following Monday, he greeted me with a raised eyebrow and a drawn-out "Helloooooooo", and I wanted the ground to swallow me.

Now, several years later, I'm beginning to realise that interactions between tutors and their tutlings outside of the tutorial context are almost always awkward turtle moments at the very least. Since becoming a tutor, I've realised that my tutlings react to me in different ways when they happen to bump into me at Friars. Some are happy to say hi, or hug me. Some wave and smile sheepishly. Some make a point of telling me that they're "taking a night off from law!" And some, as on one memorable occasion, get a deer-in-the-headlights look on their face and bolt in terror (as if I'm going to march up to them and demand that they recite the Twelve Tables). So I decided to put together a handy guide of Do's n Don'ts for tutlings who have no idea how to react when they realise that their tutors like to have fun too.

HOW TO INTERACT WITH YOUR TUTOR
1. DON'T be afraid the greet your tutor when you see her out. I'm not a monster. I won't eat you.

2. DON'T say "I'm going to finish that assignment tomorrow morning!" That just reminds me that, at some point in the near future, I have to mark a pile of assignments. It's Friday night - I don't want to think about such things.

3. DO feel free to mention it the following week. You don't have to pretend that we didn't see each other on the Friars dance floor. But try to keep your comments appropriate. Saying "I'd never seen you in Friars before!" is fine. Saying "F**k I was so s**tfaced I barely remember seeing you!" is not.

4. DO feel free to buy your tutor shots if you feel so inclined. I won't be offended. I'm far too gracious. :P

5. DON'T think it's OK to include your tutor in everything that you do. For example, don't tell me that you don't really remember the test because you were 'really high'. I don't need to know these things.

6. DON'T be amazed if you see your tutor having a drink and dancing. I'm 22, not 52. Some of you are older than me.

And most importantly...

7. DON'T ever, ever, EVER slap your tutor on the ass if you happen to see her in Rat. Seriously. It's awkward for everyone. And I might break your wrist in response.

Life in Makana

Saturday 23 August
17:30
Take a long, hot shower in preparation for a night out.

19:00
Friend arrives for predrinks. I realise for the first time that there is no water coming out of my taps. No matter - we shall drink vodka!

00:00
Arrive home from failed night out. Discover that there's still no water. Vodka is starting to have a dehydrating effect. Go to bed feeling thirsty.

Sunday 24 August
02:00
Wake up feeling nauseous. Hurry to bathroom. Realise that water is still out and I will not be able to flush the toilet. Resist the urge to throw up. Swear never to drink vodka again.

08:00
Wake up far too early, smelling like Friars. Still no water. Make breakfast for self and friend, but cannot wash dishes. Also can't shower or brush teeth. Hangover is not helping.

10:00
Convince boyfriend to let me shower at his place.

10:01
Realise that people in house downstairs have put out buckets to catch the rain. Decide to copy them. Loads of buckets placed around the garden in the pouring rain.

11:00
Shower at boyfriend's flat. Feel delightfully clean.

15:00
Water, water everywhere except in the pipes. Use a bucket of rainwater to flush the toilet. Flat suddenly smells more pleasant.

22:00
Boyfriend's flat no longer has water. Mad rush to BP to buy 5l bottles.

Monday 25 August
07:00
Unpleasant bath in sink with cold water from plastic bottle. Unhappy Tayla.

13:30
Flush toilet with rainwater again. Beginning to run out. This is concerning.

19:00
Make supper at boyfriend's flat. Can't wash up. Beginning to run out of dishes.

Tuesday 26 August
07:30
Decide to be clever and heat water in kettle. Accidentally overheat water. Stand around for a while waiting for water to cool down enough to touch. Second bath with plastic bottles.

17:00
Boyfriend has water again! Much rejoicing and a long, hot shower (by myself...minds out of the gutter, people.)

Wednesday 27 August
10:00
Water is back in my flat! Flush the toilet with clean water. Much rejoicing.

17:00
Hot shower. Happy Tayla.

Thursday 28 August
08:30
Friend warns me that their water has gone off again.

11:00
Fill up several bottles with water. Manage to get about 7l before tap runs dry again.

17:30
Lights begin to flicker ominously while making supper.

17:45
Power is tripping every 5 seconds. Feel like I'm at a cheap disco. Supper is ruined. Give up, switch power off at mains, and call boyfriend to come and save me.

21:00
Shower at boyfriend's flat. Feel sorry for myself and my lack of water and electricity.

Friday 29 August
10:00
Water is back but now have no power whatsoever. Electrician is summoned.

11:20
Electrician examines meter and tells me that it's faulty. Calls municipality. Cannot get box replaced because of strike over water issue. Electrician tells me that the earliest he can sort out a temporary fix is Monday. I now have water but no electricity.

11:25
Electrician leaves. Brief emotional breakdown.

15:00
Tell Grahamstown to stick it where the sun don't shine and decide to leave for the weekend.

How you know you're getting old

I complain about getting old a lot. At the grand old age of 22, I often whinge to my friends about how ancient I feel, how little and innocent the first years look, and how scary it is that time is flying past. Now, there are various things that I have experienced which have made me feel old. Some such things include:

1) Watching first years falling over each other in Friars
2) Being called "ma'am" by a first year
3) Seeing my old Grade 8s at Rhodes as first years
4) Hearing about friends getting engaged

But I felt truly, scarily old for the first time earlier this week.

As I'm home for the holidays, I decided to accompany my mom to Pick n Pay for the weekly grocery shop. She pushed the trolley, and I wandered around the shop asking her to buy me things (as one does). As I was heading back to drop something in the trolley, I suddenly saw a good-looking guy standing in a queue for the till. Now good-looking guys are relatively rare in the small town where I live (during winter, anyway), so he was hard to miss. Tall, blonde, a little bit of stubble going on...not bad eye-candy. Then he turned around and I realised he was carrying a baby.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I checked out a young father. I am old enough to admire men who have their own kids...and it's not actually that creepy.

I officially have one foot in the grave.

Laments of the unfit

Those of you who know me are well aware of my general aversion to exercise. I am not what one would call a "gym enthusiast"; in fact, I'm not a get-out-of-bed enthusiast. If I had my way, I would spend the rest of winter hibernating under a pile of feathery duvets, with the occasional excursion to use the bathroom or make a cup of tea. I love my bed. I love tea. I do not love exercise.

However, my aversion to exercise has unfortunately started to show. Since moving into a new digs, last year's 20min walk to campus has been shortened to 5min. Since moving out of res two years ago, the amount of food I eat has drastically increased. Gone are the days of grey cauliflower and undercooked chicken schnitzels in the res dining hall; in digs, I can make myself blue cheese pasta, or lemon chicken with roast potatoes, or as much toast as my tummy could handle (how I love toast...). Nom nom nom. However, the lack of walking and the indulgence of my long-inhibited foodie side have led to weight gain. And so, with great trepidation, I finally forced myself to join the gym.

Now, I do understand that one does not need to join the gym in order to exercise. I could quite easily throw together a little routine to do in the comfort of my own flat, or download a variety of home work-out videos with sprightly women in Spandex who would march purposefully on the spot and encourage me to join in. But deep in my heart, I know that I would never actually do it. It would be too easy to fob off exercise with excuses like "I have too much work", "I'm too tired", or "I should be studying". By joining the gym, I force myself to exercise. Why? Because otherwise I've wasted R580. I paid for it; I may as well get my money's worth.

For further motivation, I convinced my significant other to join the gym too. I suspect that we've both slid into a bit of a relationship rut when it comes to exercise, along the lines of "Why bother getting sexy if I already have someone?" Luckily for him, his lack of exercise has not led to the same worrying wobbliness that I've experienced. But I managed to convince him, and so we joined together. I even managed to convince him to get up early for a morning session. Those of you who know him may understand what an achievement this was.

The first session went as expected. I hopped on a treadmill, surrounded by girls in lycra tights who were pelting along as if their lives depended on it. Determined not to look like an outsider, I marched through my minute-and-a-half warm-up walk, and then started at a comfortable jog. Three minutes in, I was congratulating myself on not losing my fitness. Five minutes in, I was puffing. By the time my ten minute jog was up, I believe I may have been dying.

But R580 is R580, so I wobbled off the treadmill on jelly legs and staggered determinedly upstairs to take on the machine from hell: The Elliptical.

I hate ellipticals with a burning passion. They are horrible machines. In fact, I strongly suspect that I simply do not have the legs for elliptical workouts. Even at the height of my fitness (which, admittedly, was not particularly high), I struggled to survive a session on these things. As I tried to block out the burning in my thighs I also resisted the urge to kill the girl next to me out of sheer envy. She had set her machine at a much higher resistance than mine (come on, we all check these things...) and was happily trundling away while carrying on a conversation with her friend. Damn her and her toned thighs.

From the elliptical it was on to what my sister calls "the slut machine". I don't actually know the name of these machines; I just know that they're awkward to use. Modestly turned to face away from the rest of the gym, these machines either force your thighs apart or together, leaving you to press against the weights. It's like two opposing moral forces; one thrusts your legs open while you struggle grimly to resist the temptation; the other wedges them together so that you struggle to push them apart. (Delightful imagery, I know).

Thankfully I was spared further torture when my significant other appeared and said that he was done for the day. We wobbled out together, with me waxing lyrical about how fit I was going to be by the end of the month.The post-workout endorphins were flowing, and I was convinced I was going to be as toned as a Greek god. This self-satisfaction lasted until the following morning, when I tried to stumble bleary-eyed to the bathroom. As I rolled out of bed, I felt the faintest tweak of warning in my calves. I ignored it. But as I stood up, my legs shrieked in protest and I nearly pitched backwards onto the bed again. Aching stiffness radiated through every inch of my poor, muscle-less legs. As I hobbled to the bathroom, straight-legged and aching, I reminded myself once again why I hated exercise. Sometimes I suspect that just getting fat would make me so much happier...

The psychology of socks

This evening, I realised for the first time that I've been working too hard lately. How did this realisation occur, you ask? I tried to throw my socks away.

Seriously.

I got out of the shower. I dried myself. I put on underwear, pants, and a top. Then, for some reason known only to my subconscious, I walked into the kitchen and threw my socks in the bin.
OK I didn't exactly throw them in. By the time my hand was over the bin the awake part of my brain had managed to alert the rest that something had misfired and I was in danger of losing some hard-earned clothing. For a moment I just stood there, staring at the socks and trying to work out what I was doing wrong.

And I am genuinely relieved that I did not throw my socks away. Good socks are hard to come by. Perhaps I am alone in this problem, but my socks have a tendency to wear away at the toes and heels, leaving my tender footsies partially exposed to the biting Grahamstown cold. When I was little, my mom told me that as long as my feet were warm, the rest of me would be warm. I like to think that there is a scientific reason for it, and that she didn't just brainwash me into believing it.

Of course, not all of my socks have disappointed me (I sound like an overachieving parent...). Fluffy socks never fail me. I can wear them day in and day out, for winter after winter, and they continue to be warm, fluffy and - most importantly - whole. I have three pairs of cherished, much-loved fluffy socks, and they continue to snuggle my toes to this day. As exams loom, the wind howls and I despair over the stressful LLB life, my fluffy socks are a constant point of reference in my life.

Perhaps that's why I tried to throw my socks away tonight. My overworked and exhausted subconscious was trying to send me a message: it needs the comfort of fluffy polka-dot socks if it's going to continue to function. My psyche is desperate for the cosy delight of coddled tootsies.

Or maybe I just need more sleep.

The most taboo word I know (TOTALLY PG 16!)

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