Them two watching me cry

Niamh and Ciarra are nasty. Like they would eat your children if they were in a room long enough with them. But nothing says nasty, like putting on a film, and while your slightly emotional sister is watching it, not letting her sneak off to bed when the sad bit is coming, and watching her cry. I am that slightly emotional sister.

Firstly I should rewind a little. I like films. I like them like Niamh and Ciarra like watching me cry. My favorite film would be Pearl Harbour. I understand that people dislike this film. Okay so the acting is bad and the story is a little boring (the romance bit). I suppose one would say that the action scenes were a tad unrealistic. I assume you could go as far to say that the cliches make it unbearable. But despite all that, you should seriously sit there and watch the film of a night when you are tired. Pretty dresses, an exciting bit half-way through and cheesy monologues usually found only in adaptions of Nicholas Sparks books, you will love it. 


The only problem with Pearl Harbour, is the ending. If you have seen the film, you will know. If you haven't, imagine the emotion of Titanic mixed with the cheesy script of The Notebook, but the backdrop is Tora! Tora! Tora! Congrats - for you have  just imagined Pearl Harbour the movie. 

I remember not long after we had moved into this house, and my (read: Niamh's) DVD collection was missing this certain piece of cinematic genius. She had seen the film not long after it came out, but I hadn;t. At eleven, three hour films were people talk bored me. So one afternoon, when the film had just started Niamh let's out a evil cackle before declaring she was watching it. I would have been happy to watch the last half an hour, but was ready to leave when the title rolled on and I realized that we had three hours of this film left. 


"Sit down," Niamh shouts. No, hissed.  She hissed it. Like a cat would hiss at a dog that had pooped in the street. Scared for my life, I sat. 


The film was good, but I was around thirteen and at that age I appreciated the joy of a romance film. Not to mention, I had accidentally watched A Walk To Remember that morning, which was so unbelievably cute. The film was good, in my opinion. So when it came to it, Niamh snakes of to her room. I watched the end of the film. About twenty minutes later, when I am drenched in a lake of my own tears and making a weird crying noise, Niamh struts into the room, closely followed by her minion (that's Ciarra). For the remainder of the film I cried. When I had managed to calm down, there was another bit that made me cry, and when I started again, they laugh like they have just won some lump sum of money. It was that day I realized that there is no end to the evil measures Niamh and Ciarra will go to. 


I manage to do this thing these days, when the film is around half way through I will flop my head around a little, eventually pretending to doze on the couch before Niamh kicks me and sends me to bed. No tears. No laughing. No worries. 


Then there was Camp Rock 2. Camp Rock 1, which is what it will be called from here on in, didn't make me cry. I mean I loved it and everything, but there were no tears. For reasons I can't quirt remember, not three days after my birthday, in my brand new birthday pajamas I cried like I have never cried at a film before. Mid-breakdown Ciarra comes to watch the end of the films. I switched from the usual crying to the silent crying, which I don't like because I get a sore throat and a aching tummy. Then they lose, and then the silent crying was out of the window. To make it worse, I didn't think she was going to say anything about it when she left the room. About thirty seconds later she came back, with Niamh. While I watched the end of the film, they watched me. 


But Ciarra and Niamh have both cried at films before know. Ciarra barely counts. She was about five when we watched Free Willy, which was one of Niamh's favorites. At the end, when they start to drain the water from the tank, with gallons rushing out per second and leaving poor Willy knocking on death's door at the bottom of the tank, Ciarra started crying the loudest cry in the world. I have known nothing like it. The best part of this saga was when mum burst in the room. She thought we had knocked over a glass of water. God knows how much water she thought the glasses in our house contained. 


Niamh's is a little more complicated. No one was there when it happened. We don't speak of it, because she always brings up the most embarrassing thing she can think whoever bring it up has done. I should explain, she watched this only a month after her dog had died, which she had owned since she was about eight. Oh yes, she watched Marley and Me. Niamh isn't emotional in anyway, but when I noticed it was recorded, she told me about her crying. When I put it on, she threw a cup at me. The cup had tea in. I have scars to prove this. I mean Marley and Me is a little different to Free Willy, Pearl Harbour and Camp Rock 2, but she cried. At least we know she has a heart and not a swinging brick. 


Ciarra is on holiday and mum and dad are out. She is threatening to make me watch Hatchi. 


So until next time, I can only suggest that you watch the films mentioned. Okay, maybe not Free Willy, but the others are good.

Rioting with my Father

It wasn’t long ago that we ended up talking about the Toxteth riots of 1981. Dad mentions how he had been there. Dad, who is familiar with the cast of The Vampire Diaries so much so that last time Jeremy was shot he looked at me to check I was crying, wasn’t exactly throwing bricks at windows and attacking police, but he was there. It’s the closest we have ever been to a riot.

I wasn’t sure on the definition of a riot, and as far as I knew, it was when everyone grabbed their signs and sung. I told dad, “I want to go to a riot.” He looked at me in disbelief and mum laughed.

I then went on to say that I would be good in a riot because I was loud and I knew all the words to a lot of songs. I half expected everyone to gather around and walk down a street while we sung Taylor Swift and Hannah Montana songs. But that wasn’t what was happening. I found that out when the blues in the politics brought tuition fees up and crowds threw fences at the police. No, I didn’t want to go to a riot. I wanted to go to a demonstration. Evidently, they are two different things.

Not long after there was a demonstration in Liverpool. Of course, I wore my old, not made for walking shoes and instead of doing the eighty mile walk or however long it was, I just told dad that we would join on the front and gather around and shout ‘yeah.’

So we did. We showed our support by going for coffee and biscuits and then going for the nicest chips in the world. Seriously, they were heavenly, but that’s another story. Anyway, we were early, and had to wait for them to walk to us. We waited around for a while and bought some drinks. We lingered by walls and ran away from pigeons, all the while I was telling dad about Taylor Swift’s new album. Four bottles of diet coke and a chocolate bar later, the front of the demonstration was visible. My view was clouded by a department store, but a lot of people were there.

After about half an hour everyone was standing outside the art gallery, in front of this old building where The Beatles dig holes*. At least I think that was the hall. Either way it was pretty, and there were those clouds in the sky that you can make pictures out of. While people spoke about how unfair things were I smiled and looked for a cloud that looked like a unicorn.

And then, as if out of nowhere, Mr Joe Anderson took the microphone. The unicorn cloud was no longer interesting, because Joe Anderson, or has he has now been branded, Shouty Joe, screamed what he was saying. He’s a motivational chap, and even though I don’t know what he actually does (dad called him leader of Liverpool council or something along those lines, so he must be important). I ‘yeah’-ed and cheered and clapped when the old man who was standing next to me did, because he seemed to know his stuff.

*This is a reference to the song A Day in The Life, The lyrics go

I read the news today oh boy

4 thousand holes in Blackburn Lancashire

And though the holes were rather small they had to count them all

Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert hall

This is wrong on every level, the Beatles didn’t dig the holes, the holes were not in the hall, but most importantly it wasn’t the Albert Hall.

We were outside George’s hall in Liverpool.

Shouty Joe went, and then Whispering Wilma or whatever, we don’t remember her because she was quiet and not as fun as Shouty Joe, so we left. If you are wondering about Cloudy the unicorn in the sky, he was still there.

So recently there have been more troubles, which is what I would use to describe the riots if this was 1806. The riots and lootings in the big cities have been all over the news. It made me question how good I would be in a loot.

I know I have a slight organisation problem, and nothing annoys me like when people do something stupid. I was watching a video of people looting, not out of choice, but the news and film finder are on the same screen (for those of you that care I was looking for The Last Song). There were people trying to lift a shutter which was fine. Then one man tried to smash it by throwing a brick. I found I was shouting at the TV about how ‘HE COULDN’T SMASH A BLOODY SHUTTER YOU DOZY HOOLIGAN’. When he didn’t hear me I was forced to abort my mission to find the film, and had to calm myself down by watching the Shopping channels.

I was proud of one man I saw. He was in a shop that was selling footwear and football shirts. I think it was one of those sports shops I have to pass to get to Next from Thornton’s. Anyway, he was picking up the shoes and checking the size, and seeing if he liked them. I was proud of this man. He was good. No one wants to get home to find that they have grabbed the wrong shoes and they don’t fit. Then you have to have the awkward conversation the next day when you attempt to return them.

“Do you have your receipt?”

“I didn’t get a receipt.”

“All sales come with a receipt.”

“Oh, Darling I didn’t buy them. I looted them. Do I have to return them to a looted store?”

It’s not good. But then I don’t think I would buy training shoes. This led to the thought, where would I loot. I like my clothes, but in the dark colours can be confused. I would be ashamed to get home and find that I have looted something blue. I don’t like blue because it does nothing for my skin tone. But anyway, I would prefer HMV, because I love my films and the Disney shop.

The Disney shop would be my first choice, though the looters might not enjoy going into the Disney shop and grabbing The Lion King teddy’s and Disney Princess figurines. Besides, knowing my luck I would end up with two Simba’s. What could I do with two Simba’s? I could do nothing, okay. Nothing can be done with two Simba’s!

Of course the nearest loot-able HMV and Disney shop near me are in Liverpool, and despite asking dad, explaining we needed to get their early to so we don’t end up with two Simba’s or miss all the Carrie Underwood CD’s (because Carrie is popular with the looter’s), he said no and told me to go and finish watching West Side Story. So I had to think closer to home, so somewhere in walking distance.

Then I decided against walking anywhere, so instead went to my room and read while listening to Taylor Swift and Lady Antebellum.

I’m too slow anyway, so would end up with the things no one has wanted. I would come home with a broken toaster and a knock of iPod with enough memory for half a picture.

So I suppose, staying at home and watching the Disney Channel and then playing on IMDb is better for me.

One thing I did notice was the looting of corner shops. Really, what do they plan to loot from a corner shop? My corner shop‘s specialty is its own brand of cola, which tastes like someone just watered down Pepsi. The magazines even my mother turns her nose up to and the selection of alcohol could be found at a major supermarket anyway.

So if I did ever decide to loot some fake cola and a packet of Cadbury’s buttons from the corner shop, I wouldn’t just take them. I would be forced to go all out. I would want ten of every kind of chocolate and as much fake cola as my little arms could carry. I would need a basket.

A person carrying a basket is a rarity among those looting. I suppose I would be a first. Not a bad thing when you think about it. At least I would be on the TV. I would have the go in a nice dress and do my hair if I was going to be on the news.

Anyway got to go 400 hoodies will only wait so long for me to direct them, see you soon I have got 2 Simbas to trade.

TTFN

Spiders and Birds

I hate spiders. Not because I am scared of them or anything, but because my house is full of them. We moved from a three-story house, where both mine and Ciarra's room and Niamh's room, were practically spider free. But we moved into a bungalow, where my room (which is also Ciarra's room but I am oldest) and Niamh's room are full of those eight legged freaks. 

Ciarra is bad for being scared of spiders, but she wouldn't notice a spider if it was flashing pink and orange. Niamh on the other hand thinks that while she sleeps they will all come from their hiding spaces and maul her. She thinks that the spiders in our house are the SAS division of the spider world. She checks everything. She checks under tables and in her bed and in the garden. 


Last night, I was sitting in mum's room reading and she walks to her room. She thinks she had seen a spider, so all hell breaks loose. She wasn't screaming or anything, but she howls down the hall "DAAAAAAAAD!!! COME AND KILL THIS SPIDER!!". Dad can't see it, so she has him lift the table in the hall up to check underneath it. When she sees it, she thinks dad can juggle the table, while reaching underneath to get the spider. When he manages after about five minutes she's not convinced. By this time I am four chapters on and have completely lost what's going on because all I can think is, "If Ciarra wakes up and finds out about this bloody spider, I'll have to sleep in the living room with her." Niamh prances down the hall and turns on the Hoover. I ask you to bare in mind here, this is half twelve, so the middle of the night. She doesn't think it's dead, but she thinks it's in the Hoover. After ten minutes of me and mum telling her that the spider is dead, she agrees, and goes into the bathroom. She is in their for hours, brushing her teeth and doing her hair and generally just messing about. When she comes out the Hoover is sitting idle in the hall. She tells me to move the Hoover because she doesn't like Spider corpses. In shock, I move the Hoover and she goes to say something about my fear: the birds. 


I like to think me and Alfred Hitchcock had something in common. We both saw the end of the world coming, but with Birds. I have been banned from watching Birds, because I don't react well to horror films, and the bird thing needs no explanation. 

The impending Avian Apocalypse is coming. Good thing is that I have known this for years, so I know just what gear we will need. When the time comes, me and my family will be well prepared. Shout at me if you want, but we were almost there with the Dodo birds, so if we banded together I am sure we could wipe out Pigeons (bobbing head messengers of the devil), Sparrows (those noises are seriously doing something to our heads) Crows (Alfie H could tell you about that). Those owls with the big black eyes can say, because they remind me of a dog. Eagle's too, because they are like people but with wings. 


The Pigeons of the world and me don't get along. They are dirty and smelly and are too fat for their scrawny little wings. I blame pigeons for everything. I am sure they have something to do with the petrol prices. They are taking it to funnel into a machine that they will use to move the earth out of it's orbit, killing us all. It the only explanation for the petrol prices. Global warming is their fault because their fat little bodies insulate the world. You can be damn sure they had something to do with Rebecca Black's Friday.

Mum and dad hate when we go out and I see a pigeon, because my first instinct is to run for the hills, or throw myself into a shop. I'll be honest, the latter is the more common. So I suppose, we can blame the Pigeons for my excessive shopping problems. The other day, when we were shopping I made Niamh take the trolley back because I swear there was a pigeon there. She said there wasn't but I picked it up on my radar.I would have had to take it back if it was a spider. 


Mum is scared of mice, but we have never had a run-in with them so there isn't much to report. However my cousin has a hamster, and when he was on holiday it stayed in our house. We wanted to get it out, and as far as we could see it would be no problem. So we did. We put it in that green ball thingy that stops it from going under the couch or out the front door and left it. Mum came in and screams to "Put it away!!" Me and Niamh were in trouble. I don't know how, but I know the Pigeons were involved.

 So remember next time when you see a pigeon, it's sent from the devil. Just a warning from the self-proclaimed fountain of all knowledge.


Until next time.

Them two

As previously mentioned, I have two sisters. Of course I do suffer from a serious case of middle child syndrome, because I am the middle child. Niamh is older, and forever will be, a slightly odd girl. She loves The Lion King, Dean Martin and documentaries about Orca's and Lion's. Ciarra is younger than me, and can't see past the computer screen. Between watching Taylor Swift videos 
and faffing about on Facebook you barely get half a conversation out of that one.

Being the oldest, I'll complain about Niamh first. She loves The Lion King in the same way that one loves a family member or close friend. It's a weird obsession. When I was born, my auntie bought her it on DVD, naturally. So, since the day I reached my family home, the songs and script of The Lion King have been imprinted in my mind. I find myself chanting The Circle of Life at the end of exams until we leave. I think it was safe to say that The Lion King was the theme tune of my youth and my teens and as I go into my late teens, it's still there. She turned eighteen last year, and for her birthday she had a Lion King themed cake, which was the same theme she had when she turned three. 

In the years it's been growing up, she has probable become more juvenile. I like to think I have grown up, but the only one out of all of us who acts a little older than she did when she was ten, it Ciarra. 

Ciarra is like the mother people wish they didn't have. She shouts at me when I leave things on her bed, and she throws insults at me. The other day I was sitting on the couch watching 90210 at ten in the morning. She walks in, dressed, which is something new for her at that time of the morning. She is usually still in bed. She goes to me, 'are you gonna stay on the couch all day?'. I would have ignored her, but when she followed it with a 'lazy bitch' I think it was safe to say she deserved a slap. I thought it only suiting to deliver it to her. 

Though I suppose I understand why. She isn't our real sister you see. She was found on the steps of a Shanghai orphanage when she was only hours old, bless her. She was sent to us to raise as one of our own. Okay, not really. The story comes from the planning of Niamh's eighteenth, which she was going to have the family around dressed as Disney characters, again showing her level of maturity. Along with the help of our cousin, we were giving everyone in the family a character that they could be. I was Esmeralda of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, while Niamh went for the ever so classy Nala from The Lion King, because she wanted to be a girl. Mum was going to be Pocahontas, but I can't quite recall why, and Dad said he wanted to be Baloo from the Jungle Book. When Ciarra couldn't think of anyone Niamh suggested Mulan, for the sole reason that Ciarra loved Mulan when she was younger. I missed a big part of the conversation through through telling Nanna about why she should be the fairy god-mother from Cinderella. Later, Niamh said to me, 'Erin, wasn't Ciarra found on the step of a Shanghai orphanage when she was a baby. She's adopted isn't she Erin.' I replied with a 'Oh yeah. Before mum and dad called you Ciarra you were going to be called Lei Ming.'

The next day, when Ciarra reminded us of the other life me and Niamh had told her all about, and her parents back in China, who were farmers on the Yangtze River, we told her it was true. Mum and Dad went along, and to this day we stand by the story. It has become a joke, and she even answers to Lei. Or Georgie, but that's a different story. 

So Lei has a fair few names we have given her actually. We call her (some to her face, others behind her back):

• Lei Ming - Because she is a Chinese orphan
• The Golden Child - Because she is the favourite
• The Angel Child - Because she is the favourite and can do no wrong

But I suppose Niamh has her names too:

• Ninoo - she chose that herself. Don't ask. 
• Niamhy - she chose that herself. I don't know. 
• Niamhy-noo - she chose that herself. I bet your worrying about her sanity. Me too.

And then there is me. And the names they have for me. 

• Seven - when dad shouts me, if sounds like he is shouting 'seven'.
• Ezzle Bezzle - I bet you can't guess who came up with that one. Yeah, Niamh. 
• The most clever and beautiful out of all the Wenham women - okay they don't. But it's true. 

Well, I am sure that through writing this blog many more stories about them two will come out. So until next time. 

Bye Bye.

Why start writing a blog?

I'll be sixteen on the 4th of September, and so far, in the past two weeks, have been made redundant twice. 

I had a paper round.  Oh, and how I loved my paper round. It took me half an hour a week due to the fact that my younger sister, mum, dad and cousin all helped me. The best part was when I got to go to the bank and withdraw a clean and new ten pound note and then strut into Asda to spend the lot on a film and offensive amounts of sweets.

The second 'job' wasn't really a job. I volunteered on a local radio station, making me super cool and giving me an hour of time where I could have a conversation with my younger sister, Ciarra, while mum and dad sat outside in the car. I like to think that I slowly educated them on Glee, The Vampire Diaries, Gossip Girl. More recently they understand everything that is going on in Falling Skies, Pretty Little Liars, and Nikita. 

The letter came in the post, and I of course was expecting someone to offer me a Record Contract or David Cameron was answering my letter complaining about the sequel of Avatar*. But it was neither. I was made redundant. The highlight of course was the redundancy money that I would get. I am looking forward to spending the lot on a well deserved pair of white wedges, a film with Shane West in, a rom-com and sweets. That was the paper round. 


The radio was finished because of the money that was put into it was pulled out. That was finished. But for the above things I did enjoy the radio. 


So I suppose know would be a good time to introduce myself. I am fifteen (almost sixteen) and  still in school. I like to think I am the life of the party and kind, smart and don't cry at everything. Though they aren't entirely true. I hope I am the life of the party, but come ten o'clock and I was my bed. I am kind, but catch me on the wrong day and I can be less that sweet. I am smart, but like everyone I have my so called Blond Moments. The last one, about the crying, that was just a complete lie. But that's another story. 


I have two sisters, Niamh (said like Nee-V. Because the Irish couldn't make a name sound the same as it is spelled if you paid them). The other one, the younger one, it's called Ciarra. It's said like the thing that makes the door open (key) followed by the noise a dinosaur makes (rah). Key-Rah.

My parents are called Mum and Dad. I thought that was pretty obvious but some of the people on the internet (not to be mistaken with the highly intellectual Internet-People) aren't that clever.

The above picture is of me and the girls, in Florida a few years ago. It seemed like a nice way to round out the end of a blog.


So I bid thee farewell. In the famous words of Gossip Girl. 


XOXO


Gossip Girl  Erin Wenham


*I know who David Cameron is. That is the joke.