All That I Am, All That I Dream.

Bestfriends and basslines. I think that I might be in love.

Myspace is streaming The Mid-Nineties as I wait in anticipation for April. In April Tm-N's album comes out and BY April I will have heard back from the BRITs school. So, uh, fingers crossed. The familiar bassline of Red Jeans crackles as it comes out of the computers crappy speakers, but it still sounds beautiful. Which reminds me; whatever has happenned to Joe Hughes? I don't know. They say that our Father figures reflect who we love, as they are our only source of manly authority, and therefore the ones we look up to. I've always thought this a load of crap, but here, yet again, I find myself falling for another Northern bass player.

www.myspace.com/themidnineties

Chasing Lights.

I'm sitting in my usual computer spot - inbetween the radiator and the settee, thinking DO SOME ART DO SOME ART DO SOME ART DO SOME DAMN ART, NATALIE ROSE HILL. And my Mum keeps saying it too. And my uncle Michael, which is kinda random because he's living in my sisters bedroom even though he lives in Australia. Lucky sod. So, off today I went to Hastings, one of the best places in the world possibly. Daddy took me to Aunty Queenie's house (coolest name in the whole entire world?). She has the best house ever. And now we've just got home. I love driving home in the dark. I made my dad listen to Scott Mills and then fell asleep, chasing cats eyes and letting the road marks hypnotise and seduce me into dreamland.

I think it's weird that people think that I'm rich, just because I speak well and have nice clothes and have hobbies like doing art, or going to art galleries, and because I had my very own dressing room before we moved and because I've moved to 13 different houses in 13 years.

I'd like a hug. Give me a hug? Because I love you, I really do. And I thought it really sweet when you said about the bubblewrap, which is why my whole blog is even called bubblewrap, apart from the fact that my favorite song is called bubblewrap (youtube it - I can play it on the piano.) but the song and what you said are practically the same message. I hope you know that I'm talking to you, because I know that you like to read my blog alot, which is also nice.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is tar me dar.

Colour Makes My Heart Sing.

Here I sit, alone, in a little house, in the middle of a middle class town, sitting on the end of a cul-de-sac behind the spar and listening to S-club.
I listen to passing adolescents singing too high and too flat to a song written by some dude my Dad knows which my Mum, if she wasn't at yoga, would say had a lovely message, so:

Don't stop, never give up, hold your head high and reach the top. Let the world see what you have got - bring it all back to you. Dream of falling in love - any thing you've been thinking of. When the world gets to tough, bring it all back to you.

I have two pieces of mail waiting for me from when I got home this morning. One is a small package, a cuboid about the size of my big hand, maybe a bit bigger, and as deep as my little hand. It has yellow wrap with my name and adress on a small label in the corner. In the middle, in assorted colours is a big caption saying "Colour Makes My Heart Sing." Wow, I'm totally making a mental note to order from this place more often. The other is a rather proffesional looking rectangle. You know the sort, the ones that you use when you're trying to make a good impression on someone, so something in your brain tells you to fold your letter into three because yeah, that ought to give a good impression. Damn, I hope it's what I think it is.

I turn to the package first. I know what it is. I just thought it would have come quicker, but I'm not complaining, at least it got here eventually. I don't want to rip the beautiful, perfect packaging so I tear at the sellotape and stick it to my Mum's coffee table and carefully unfold the yellow sheet around the white box with the company's signiture paintbush logo on it and another "Colour Makes My Heart Sing" and I flick the switch and slowly open the box. I gasp at the beauty of it and take off my Vanessas to get a better look.

And, damn, theyre right. Coulour really does make my heart sing. Twelve little boxes of colour gasp back at me, just begging me to let them re-arrange and mix their beauty on my new acryllic paper. On the top of the case it says in the same style as the other captions "The Building Blocks of Beauty" Once again, they're right. I have bright blue, black, dark geen, brown, Bright green, tan, beige, red, yellow, orange, white, and a dark blue. It's comforting to know that I cna do magnificent things with these colours.

I put the paint back in its box and, since my Mum, who would tell me that my eyes look pretty when they totally don't, isn't in, I decide to leave the Vanessas off. I get the mood right for my next letter, make a milkshake, put on my favorite song (POV by McFly - I have to say I prefer the acoustic version of which I can play the whole of on piano (listen, you'll be impressed with me)if you were at all interested) and sit down in front of the letter, praying it be what I've been praying for all this time. I get my self comfortable on the hairy brown rug and sit and fidget for a moment. I finally get the guts to open this letter and yes, it is from who I hoped. Down the left side of the letter is capitalised "THE BRIT SCHOOL." underneath, is written:
"Applicant Name: Natalie Hill
Strand: Visual Arts & Design

Meeting date..."

NEED I SAY ANYMORE?
Bcause I am super happy and one can only hope that this adventure has just started.

So, here is a girl, alone at the end of a super dry cul-de-sac, throwing on her talking shoes, white cardigan pink scarf and of course, her Vanessas, running out of the door to treat herself to some Marks and Spencers own brand cola and possibly some new Frankies, because she painted the last ones so dark that they look more like Rochelles.

Choo, Choo; Train Of Thought Coming Your Way.

My last blog has made me realise a lot of things. I've had the night to think about it, between drawing the most hugest picture of R-patz, as the crazy girl from Sugar magazine calls him and then claims that he is "swoonsville," which I'm almost sure should be a place, not a person. So, again, I drifted away on one of my trains of thought that could no way be followed had it been verbal, as I would have skipped bits out as my brain moved with such velocity through the motions of "R-Patz" and then developed once again my northern accent as the words tumble out of my lips with no means of pause. And yet again, there goes my train of thought, somewhat poetic. And in case you didn't connect, which I know that I wouldn't have, "R-Patz" is supposedly the bad-ass name for the rather respectable Robert Pattinson, who is total hotness, or swoonsville, as one might describe, but I don't know if I can actually fancy him because I found out the other day (from Rubey, the obsessed northerner who spends her Sundays researching her crush of the week and then reports back to me for some reason as I, as a girl, try to multi-task, doing some food-tech whilst consuming information being fed down from Leeds that I know will only ever come useful if I were to go on Junior Mastermindand have my specialist subject as "Rubey's Crushes," for example I know all of McFlys full names (Daniel Alan David Jones, Dougie Lee Poynter, Thomas Michael Fletcher and Harry Christopher Judd) and their birth dates, ages and star signs (March 12th, 22, Pisces, November 30th, 20, Saggitarius, 17th July, Cancer, 23 and 23rd January, Capricorn, also 23), Thanks Rubes. (and there goes another train of thought.)

Anyways, Rubey tells me that he has a double barrel surname (Thomas-Pattinson), and my steps are Thomas. So he might be my secret step-cousin or something. So would that be incest? Elly Wood says no. Fair enough.

So, my Mother's gone to pick up Grandmama Bridget to take her to the home Grandfather Thomas was living in to pick up his clothes as he sadly pre-deceased the living (obviously) and eventually died on Friday. And Grandmama, being her usual evil self, well she would, wouldn't she? Yes, the funerals scheduled for my birthday. What a crap birthday. Well, don't blame me when I become a goth. She's left a note and two pounds in twenty pences on top of my portrayal of R-Patz.

So here I am, defying everything. Because you can't put yourself in a blog, which is just what I've done, on my massive mission of edification which has somehow ended as a mission of self destruction which I don't know how to turn back. I'm like those tortured artists, the ones I've always loathed and despised for not making an effort which I never understood, which is probably why anyone even liked them in the first place. And it's a silly thing to be liked for, which is probably why I make such an effort, which is probably why it works out.