No place for boys like you.

Friday night was nice/manic. I went to my old highschool to shoot the fashion show. It was nice really, I got back stage and even got to run around the stage taking photographs quickly. I didn't expect the girls to be quite as stunning. I remember my year being particularly mongy, but pretty much all of the girls in the show had something incredibly beautiful about them. It was a nice and successful evening. This also gave me the chance to talk to my ol' favourite, Mr Garlington. Who is truely the apple of my eye.

Saturday I went to work like I usually do, but I didn't realise I would have the piss taken out of me so much. My boss and various other people left for a two hour break, whilst about four of us (three really, considering one person did FUCK ALL) worked in the most frenzied way at the peak time of the day. There was a constant flow of customers and almost constantly a line through the shop, which kept me from 9 until 3 o'clock when I finally got my break. I had been working since 8:30am.
I hate moaning about work because some people don't have jobs, and mine is usually quite nice so I tend to keep quiet when something bothers me, but this is simply the most ridiculous example of bad management. When I asked to go on my break (which I wouldn't normally do) at 3 o'clock, my boss was so blase and carefree that she had just abandoned us for two hours said 'yeah sure...go for it'. So I fucking did.

At the night time, it was quite nice, but very cold. I was featured in a film which had me out in the streets of Leyland pointing at circular road signs and specifying how mince pie-like they were. At 9:45pm, we had to leave the 24hr Tesco because they were closing at 10pm. WHAT?

Tomorrow I am going to Manchester, to visit the Lowry with the lovely ladies of my course. I am going to go and see A Long Exposure: 100 Years of Guardian Photography and the Pop-Up- Around The World exhibitions. The latter, I'm not expecting much of. But the photography exibiton, I hope will blow me away. I'll take my ol' pal, the pentax along. There is also an exhibition by Jem Southam on, which I wouldn't mind seeing. I'm unsure if they would let me see it though. I will have to use my awesome stealth to worm my way in.

I'm worried I'm becoming haggared.

Michelle called the local newspapers (when I say local, I mean every newspaper up to Bolton) to ask them if they would consider taking our photographs and using them in the paper, they said email them and they would choose! How fun. She also called the clothes show people to ask them if by saying we worked for a newspaper was fraudulent, considering we're students and acted as someone else. They said just bring a passport and a copy of the letter they sent us each, and they would give us our Press Passes! I hope they hang around your neck so we can look important and people would think we're close with Alexander McQueen and Giles. Cheap thrills.



I do wish my life was more exciting.
And I wish I was drunk more often so I have better stories to tell.
Here are a few from the fashion show...