A Busy Birthday.

For the past three days I've just been on this crazy birthday high, which has completely impaired my ability to string together an understandable sentence. The only thing which is bringing me down right now is the fact that I know I have to go into work tomorrow.

So on Wednesday it was my actual birthday, although it feels like the party hasn't really ended since then. I spent the day shopping in Reading with my Mum, she took me out to lunch, George took me out to dinner, and then we went onto the Windsor Castle open mic with some friends.

What I didn't realise was that some of my open mic friends and my Mum had devised a little surprise birthday party, with perhaps the biggest cake I have ever seen, shaped like a guitar (pictures to come soon!). I was up at the front of the pub playing 9 Crimes with Stu and Ginni when suddenly it all went quiet, my family appeared with the cake and everyone started singing happy birthday. It was so overwhelming that I actually started crying, which was very embarrassing when you're standing in full view of everyone wearing a bright pink "Eighteen!" sash.

Anyway, last night was possibly equally mad, as I met up with Dan who had arrived here from Switzerland that day, and we went to see Bon Jovi at Twickenham stadium. It was honestly one of the funniest gigs I have ever been to. We managed to sneak onto the bottom floor when our tickets were for one of the higher platforms, so we had a great view (pictures also to come soon!). I was quite ashamed at how few Bon Jovi songs I actually knew, but they played my favourite, 'Captain Crash and the Beauty Queen from Mars' so I was happy.

Then today Dan was back here again, to lay down some basic tracks for my album. We worked on three songs; 'Birthday Card' (about George), 'Summer Every Day' (about George), and a duet, 'I Don't Love You' (not about George). I was really pleased with how they turned out, even though I can be a little skepital about Dan's crazy ideas sometimes!

OH and I just realised (thankyou Alice) that I have been very neglectful on filling you in on my little hair scare from the beginning of the week. Well, my hair is now fixed... the guy at Marc Antoni re-dyed it for free after he saw what an awful job they did of it. Hurrah! (Pictures to come soon. I promise.)

Chop chop.

Ahhhhhh!
AHHHHHH!
AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

This just in: haircuts are a bad idea.

So I turned up at the hairdressers at 10:15 for my appointment at 10:30. To my surprise they were actually running early and got me seated straight away. I spent the next ten minutes flicking through colour books, with all my ideas being dismissed by the hairdresser who kept on butting in with remarks such as "that wouldn't look right" or "don't you think that's a bit dull?"

Finally settled on a brown which looked way too dark, but Miss Scissorhands was adamant that "it's not that dark in real life, trust."

It took them four hours (yes, four!) to cut and dye my hair. I'd insisted that I only wanted a trim (if you've noticed I've been unsuccessfully trying to grow my hair for about a year now, but the ends were looking pretty nasty so they needed to go.) The last time I checked, three inches is not a trim, and my hard-earned hair all over the floor was not a very appealing sight to me. They didn't even wash it right so I had go endure two rinses as well as about half an hour under this machine which kept incessantly beeping and burning the back of my neck.

To make matters even worse I was the only customer in the whole place (not surprised after seeing the final result) so I had an audience of about five hairdressers watching as my hair got snipped away. Very unnerving to say the least.

I now look like a fat goth, and had to avoid walking through town in case anyone I knew saw me. I think tomorrow calls for a post-exam dash into town to purchase extensions.

Excitement!

What an exciting week I have ahead of me. It's only just dawned on me that as of Tuesday I'll be free until September, and all the plans I made ages ago begin now.

I'm sure you're just dying to hear about my agenda, and if you took that literally and not sarcastically then you probably think I'm an ass... if you're heading towards that little X in the corner of the screen then I'd like to say goodbye and thanks for reading.

Anyway tomorrow I'm losing my fringe of steel and dodgy split ends. Finally. I'm sick of walking around with my hand next to my head to avoid walking into stuff. "Brooke, do you have a headache?" "Brooke, are you on the phone?!" No, I just can't see unless I scrape this goddamn hair off my face.

Since it's my birthday on Wednesday (yes, birthday, yes, 18th, yes, craziness) I'm also getting it coloured a (hopefully) nice chocolate brown a la the picture below.

Unfortunately my face will never look like that, but hey ho, at least I'll have good hair.

If you've spoken to me at all in the past ten months or so you'll also understand that how ridiculously excited I am about my annual girly holiday. The fact that it's a mere 10 days away partly makes me go "Eeeee!" in happiness and partly makes me go "Eeeee!" in absolute terror. All the weight I promised myself that I'd lose by this week has instead given me a big "F you" and refuses to shift, and my wardrobe still looks like I'm preparing for a week in the Alps. Thank you, impending birthday, for providing me with the hope that I won't be too broke to go out on Wednesday and buy flip flops.

Something fishy.

When I started studying English at A Level, never for a second did I stop and think, maybe this is a bad idea. After all, at the end of it, what am I gonna be doing? Sitting in a 2 hour 30 minute long exam about... fish. Perhaps I should've been more prepared for something like this - after all, since when did anything ever go normally for me?

Well, thank cod that's over.

Dads' Day.

Ah, Fathers' Day... a day where people rush around the shops frantically all morning, having only just woken up and realised it's Fathers' Day.

But not for me. At 11:00 this morning, I was in the shoe cupboard at Dorothy Perkins, putting security tags in pairs of knickers and frantically trying to remember what on earth Mujikawa did in 2003. Yes, that's right - exam time again. And as of tomorrow, I will no longer be studying Psychology... praise the lord!!

As you can probably tell, Fathers' Day has never really been that big of a deal in our family. I mean, a few years ago I was at Milton Keynes seeing Green Day on Fathers' Day. My Mum always takes my Grandad out for a meal, my sister and I always run around the shops in a mad panic the day before, my Dad always likes his shirt and tie we get him (it's traditional, alright?!)

But this year, Claire and I decided to do something different. My Dad's always been pretty into gardening, but recently he's gone plant crazy. Seriously, every time I look out my window he's either mowing the lawn or pulling something from the ground. Claire was at a party yesterday (spa day and meal at Francescos for Claire, Psychopathology revision for me. Go figure) so it was my duty to go and choose the present - a plant and pot from the Homebase garden centre.

After examining many unappealing topiaries out the front, my Mum and I decided to wander the aisles of flowers and bushes outside the shop, pondering over the possibly five plants which weren't dead or inhabited by rabid insects. We settled for an odd looking pepper plant (which I hastily named "Peter") and a large blue pot (only way I can describe it, seeing as it's... well... large and blue.) My Dad is anti-shop bought cards, so we also went to the liberty of making one once Claire got in. A PVA blob here, a sprinkle of glitter there, and we were done.

My Dad is so, so enthralled by Peter, that I got home about 40 minutes ago, and I can still hear him downstairs saying to his girlfriend, "Wow, can you believe it? I can actually grow my own peppers! In my garden!" Well, you know what they say - simple things please simple minds.

Daniel made my day.

From Dan's Facebook:

Favorite Music:
Heroes: Butch Walker, Bon Jovi, Goo Goo Dolls, Nine Days, Mike Viola, Stephan Eicher, Matchbox Twenty, Something Corporate, Bruce Springsteen

Wow: Brooke Charlesworth, Jimmy Eat World, Lifehouse, American Hi-Fi, Dropline, Simple Plan, Southside Johnny, Jack's Mannequin, Emilie Simon

Now: The Click Five, Relient K, The Rocket Summer, Lovedrug, A Fine Frenzy, Adrian Solo, The Honorary Title, Plain White T's

Well that's cheered me up a little before the impending doom of English Unit 5...

Killing me softly with Kohlberg, killing me softly...

Day 3 in the Charlesworth house, and it's beginning to get tough. Brooke has now been at her desk for 3 hours straight, as you can see she's starting to crack. Her handwriting is getting sloppy. Her head almost seems to be swelling due to severe information overload. She's on her third Diet Coke of the day and it isn't even lunchtime. It's looking like the hottest day of the year outside, and still she sits indoors at her desk, slaving away over endless notes and textbooks and mark schemes. She's angry. She's frustrated. Who knows what she'll do next?

PLEASE, SOMEONE EVICT ME FROM THIS WHOLE SITUATION.

Vygotsky Schmygotsky.

If you have ever taken A Level Psychology and passed with more than a C, I salute you. After suddenly realising the extreme amount of revision that needs to take place before the exam on Tuesday, I spent the whole of yesterday cramming the topic of 'Relationships'. This consisted of sitting up to the kitchen table with a very bored George who was pretending to revise with me, but actually playing Scrabble online. (It's okay George... I know your secret.)

I'm sure that if my poor boyfriend hears any more about Duck (1999) and his theory of relationship breakdown, we will have a relationship breakdown. (Lack of skills, lack of stimulation, lack of motivation. Intrapsyhic, diadic, social, gravedressing. Rinse and repeat.)

But the most exciting thing about yesterday wasn't revision - oh no! It was, surprisingly, a fire.

If you know me that well you'll understand that 'surprisingly' was actually typed with a slight hint of sarcasm. When I was 11 we had a house fire which left us out of our house for the good part of a year, provoking a visit from the Daily Mail and a brief appearance on Meridien News. It's now my Dad's running joke to yell "Don't burn the house down!" when he goes out for the evening.

So George and I are sitting up to the table, waiting for our lunch to cook, when black smoke starts filling the kitchen. I head on over to the oven only to find our burgers getting a good flame grilling... literally. Unlike in Dr Cav's little anecdote during a particularly boring lesson, I did not run outside screaming and throwing the pan onto the grass. Instead, I quickly consulted George, grabbed a teatowel, soaked it, and announced "I'm going to throw this over it, open the grill!"

George grabs the flaming tray, I chuck the soggy teatowel onto it, and... miss. Well, I never did pride myself on my athletic ability. This is where the 'F' word falls out of my mouth several times, before I find the courage to pick up the teatowel and try again. Success! Hallelujah! Panic over. (Sidenote: the word 'teatowel' is really funny. Say it!)

For the next fifteen minutes we fanned the kitchen, with all the windows and the back door wide open, frantically Oust-ing all over the place and trying to get the grill to work again, in an attempt to hide the accident from my Dad, who would, needless to say, never trust us alone in the house again. The following conversation follows:

Dad: I can smell smoke...
Me: *Silence*
Dad: Why are all the windows open?!
Me: It was hot in here...
Dad: C'mon... admit it...
Me: *Nervousness*
Dad: ...you burnt your lunch, didn't you?
Me: Erm. A little.

This is being kept under wraps for good, so no telling on me. Please.

"Do you have any ID?" "For pasta?!" "Yes."

Conversation when ordering food at Wetherspoon's last night:

Me: Hi, is it too late to order food?
Wetherspoons lady: No, no... what table are you?
Me: 318.
Wetherspoons lady: Go ahead, what would you like?
Me: Well I'd like the four cheese and bacon pasta...
Wetherspoons lady: Okay, first I have to ask, do you have any ID on you?
Me: ID?
Wetherspoons lady: Yeah, I just need to check you're 18, that's all.
Me: Erm... for pasta?
Wetherspoons lady: Unfortunately, yes, seeing as it's after 7:30...
Me: ...Okay...? Bye?

Pretty much the strangest conversation I've ever had. 3 weeks guys, 3 weeks until I can get my pasta.

Gig + Exam = ?

When I bought my ticket to see Avril Lavigne at the O2 a good three months ago, I didn't realise that my A2 exams would start... that's right... the day after.

On further inspection of my exam timetable, I discovered that my ICT exam on June 5th wasn't actually until 1:30pm. To me, this created an acceptable lie in to recover from my night of, well, standing around listening to music and taking stupid photos.

Kezz and I didn't actually arrive at the arena until 7:30, when the doors opened, and were faced with a moral dilemma... eat at Nandos, or go and watch the Jonas Brothers? Hmm...

Yeah we chose Nandos.

The gig was fun. Coming back from North Greenwich on my own with some crazy guy asking if I'd go back to Bath with him was not fun.

I love London.

Neglectful blogger.

Hello blog, long time no... blog?

So the past week has been a little hectic. Isn't it crazy how tired you feel when you're ill? Add the flu from hell to a night at Astoria 2 and a weekend at Dorothy Perkins - that's how tired I am.

On Friday I was meant to be going into London to see Boys Like Girls and Cute Is What We Aim For with Kezz. However, she got called into work, so she posted me her ticket which I then gave to Jen. I always have the best time when I go to a gig with Jen; I don't drink, but hanging around Jen is probably the closest I get to feeling drunk - we honestly laugh that much.

We met on the train to Paddington and arrived at Astoria 2 in plenty of time to queue. Also bumped into my friend Jamie, who I met at a Head Automatica gig with Kezz last year (when I say met, I mean we ran through the streets together frantically trying to find a bus to get us back to our last train before 6am). We share such a similar taste in music that I've seen him at pretty much every gig I've been to since. He was wearing a party hat for his friend's 18th birthday which I stole later on in the night, shortly before Jamie got drunk and announced that he fancied me. Awkward!

Anyway, the gig itself was incredible. We The Kings played first - what a great band to open the show, especially since CIWWAF were so poor. Shaant forgot his words so many times it was untrue, although I did almost cry with happiness when they played 'Lyrical Lies'. Boys Like Girls, well, what can I say. I've seen them on every trip they've taken to the UK and they never cease to amaze me.

Getting up for work on Saturday morning was far from incredible, especially seeing as I'd stayed up for the remainder of Friday night texting. I always find it hard to sleep after gigs, partly from the adrenaline and partly from the ringing in my ears. I worked for four and a half hours before going home and collapsing on George whilst we watched my favourite contestant win Britain's Got Talent. Seriously, the kid was so good at dancing, and such a cutie.

As well as working a full day today, on top of my cumulative tiredness, I've also discovered that tomorrow I have a compulsory work meeting, for two and a half hours, about... get this... GOK WAN.

For those of you who haven't seen 'How To Look Good Naked', Gok Wan is a crazy gay Chinese man who analyses women's body shapes and dresses them in hideous clothing, which makes them look awful, but boosts their confidence so much that they feel compelled to stand in a shop window completely starkers. At Dorothy Perkins we just love Gok, so much that the managers at head office feel that we need to spend two and a half hours of our precious time learning all about him.

Personally, I do not care about Gok's theories whatsoever. I do not care what body shape I am or what body shape our customers are, and quite frankly, if a customer asks me if they should buy something, I am just going to turn around and say "yes" instead of telling them they are body type 5 of 7 and in fact, they should put that item back on the rail and walk away without opening a Dorothy Perkins account, which may potentially earn me more money.

Rant over, I'm going to bed.