Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, babes and oldies... in fact everyone (except those unwilling to splash the cash... or who are currently disabled): 'Cambridge on Ice' has, at long last, returned for its fourth year, offering skaters and merry-makers a winter wonderland right here on our very own Parker's Piece.
From Saturday 20th November until Sunday 2nd January, what could be more festive or fun than an £8.95 session spent gliding with friends and family under the twinkling fairylights and magical purple glow of this beautiful outdoor rink? Falling into both of the above categories of exclusion from such frolics, I can think of a number of alternative ways in which I'd prefer to (am resigned to having to) spend my time. But let's not be a Scrooge.
No, the two-week buzz of anticipatory excitement surrounding the erection of Cambridge on Ice will finally climax tomorrow, when the rink opens its doors to what will hopefully be a very satisfied public. I look forward to hearing screams of delight reverberating through the air, and to witnessing a flurry of exilharation as ecstatic kiddies and amorous couples take to the ice.
And if you're really old or really young, a) unlucky for you, and b) fear not: on Mondays and Tuesdays between 9 and 11am, the rink will be reserved for Parent & Toddler and Silver Skater sessions. At least I assume 'Silver Skater' refers to the elderly, as opposed to a more literal allusion to the city's rich and ostentatious, whose hard work has earned them not only high-paid jobs, but also the right to hassle-free, quiet skating. Either way, there'll be no riff-raff admitted during these times.
For those who like to follow who's who on the Oscar/Emmy/Bafta/Brit circuit, it may be of interest to you that Cambridge on Ice has been named a winner in the 2010 Cambridge 'Way To Be' awards, in recognition of their outstanding service and accessibility for disabled customers. They don't specify how on earth this accolade comes into play for the execution of a recreational activity almost entirely reliant on an able body. But who knows, perhaps every measure possible has been taken to make the rink a danger-free, more friendly and all-inclusive place: ice zimmer-frames, crampon-crutches, speed-bumps... grit?
For fear of a repeat of the shambolic dealings with last year's 'treacherous conditions', I wouldn't be surprised if the country were just sprinkling the stuff indiscriminately, ensuring no-one falls flat (on their face) this time round, regardless of whether the ice is a menacing force of nature, or a ludicrously priced fun-fest. It's a safer GB that counts, folks.
Or maybe they just got the prize because there's a ramp leading up to the cafe. So what if it's £4 a coffee and a sobering reminder that whilst physical fun is out of the question for me for 6 more weeks, the rest of the city is having jolly folly on ice?! After spending 3 minutes in veritable torment while stuck in a broken lift today, hand on my heart I can say: if it's easy access: fantastic, I'm there.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Day 12: See Day 5
That's right, before you know it, Thursday comes hurtling back round the bend, bringing with it the sharp shrill of a whistle signalling that yes, it is 1.15pm, and yes, let the most dangerous of non-combat activities once more instill fear in your soul.
This week, the Pink Panthers Ladies' Footbal Club took to Parker's Piece to the tune of 'Girls, we've got to really be more aggressive'.
Call me old-fashioned; call me a kill-joy; you know what, I don't care, call me soft; but I'd most certainly beg to differ: Er no guys, that's how accidents happen. Play nice.
And do not kick that ball over here.
This week, the Pink Panthers Ladies' Footbal Club took to Parker's Piece to the tune of 'Girls, we've got to really be more aggressive'.
Call me old-fashioned; call me a kill-joy; you know what, I don't care, call me soft; but I'd most certainly beg to differ: Er no guys, that's how accidents happen. Play nice.
And do not kick that ball over here.
Monday, 15 November 2010
Day 9: Stress Relief
...is usually heavily subsidised in the pretty university town of Cambridge. For those unfamiliar with the mores and norms of student life here: comedy events, tea and cake afternoons, fancy breakfasts, bouncy castles and metres of bubble wrap are laid on at strategic times throughout the year (around exams, during ‘week 5 blues’, in the mornings) to ensure students neither crack nor crumble under the heavy work-load with which they are burdened. No, no, no, we mustn’t busy ourselves with trying to dispel our own worries; that would be unproductive, non-academic, stress poorly spent; and no, reducing the pressure isn’t an option either: there’d be a big pile of welfare money just left lying around on its arse all day, not knowing what to do with itself. Some colleges are so kind as to provide priests to patrol the clock towers on suicide watch during exam term; that’s right, really tackling the root of the problem.
In spite of the pastoral care, flair and welfare, some maverick students –would you believe it– decide to break away from the institution, grappling with the feat of relieving stress their own way. As it turns out, Parker’s Piece plays host to some of the more creative endeavours undertaken by those striving to just let it all out.
Taking this notion in its most literal sense, the other night I witnessed a delightful couple getting dirty in the dark (again, truly fulfilling every sense of the word), right in the middle of the grass: Who ever said stress relief had to be discrete and socially acceptable in public? What, no-one?! They should have; it was sordid.
Also disgusting, and following a similar vein as far as concerns slimy mess, bad jokes about eggs, crudity and crudités, last night saw the residents of Park Terrace traumatised by this atrocity:
In one vile swoop, we were egged, teabagged and apparently set up for a comedy banana slip prank; basically, all the worst things that can happen between humans and the contents of a compost bin. Given my current line of observation, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that life was all getting too much for someone, and this was their way of dealing with it: I’m sure psychologists will agree that often, causing stress for others is a projection one’s own anguish, and that throwing things at the house of unsuspecting victims works a treat. Bastards.
On the other hand, our compost bin was probably just rummaged by a badger (or another animal, one more likely to actually live in these parts; I’m no expert... a chinchilla?!). A hungry animal? Perhaps. A stray looking for shelter? Could be. Or maybe the situation reveals a far more morbid truth: Behind their apparently carefree frolics and blasé attitude towards their limited dexterity, unfortunately animals, the poor things, get stressed out too.
We humans really have nothing to complain about; what with our opposable thumbs, we should be laughing 24/7. And if things do start to get you down, I advise you take a leaf out of the book of a young gentleman who spent at least an hour and a half yesterday just back-flipping over and over again on the spot, just beside the Parker’s Piece cricket square. I understand we’re not all acrobats – hell, if we were, we wouldn’t be here, we’d join the circus where it’s all fun and games, everyone’s happy and there’s no pressure whatsoever to perform – but I reckon jumping up and down for a while would have a similar effect. Mister Twister definitely had the right idea; after breathing some fresh air and shaking his brains up a bit, the guy looked tired, but satisfied and chilled out. And what better way to be? Certainly better than scurrying around at night with garbage juice on your filthy little mitts, that’s for sure.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Day 7: Morning runners, riders and rollers
Many people start their day early; often before the sun rises: they have things to do, places to be and that's that; no questions asked.
Some people like to rise with the sun. They're crazy*.
Other people aren't affected in the slightest by those incandescent rays creeping through the gap in their curtains at 7.16am, but find themselves rising unjustly shortly after daybreak nonetheless, when awoken by those people who do like to rise with the sun. They are gradually driven crazy.
Indeed, I was compelled to seriously question my sanity yesterday morning, when woken up not only by the resounding lunacy and sprightly patter of the early morning joggers, but by the accompanying vocals of a talking van.
The Park Terrace parking spaces have seen their fair share of illustrious vehicles: A string of Land Rovers, BMWs and Audi family saloons frequent the street, exploiting the post-6.30pm charge-drop to make the most of an early-evening bite at Pizza Express or a romantic slap-up meal at the University Arms. A small, sexy, pastel blue Figaro was recently spied sauntering on the corner; and the loitering Harley Davidsons are a hit among the boys who need something masculine to sit on, stare at and discuss on a Friday night, because they are 15 and there is nothing else for them to do. Every so often, a souped-up Subaru zips past, exercising the freedom of screech heralded by the traffic warden taking his evening leave; and some of Cambridge's more pimped-out automobiles have been known to cruise round here for honeyz. Overall, any motoring excitement on Park Terrace is a strictly nocturnal affair. That is, until now...
Morning broke over Parker's Piece without any overt signal that it was to soon provide the backdrop for the performance of a distinctly Knightrider-esque scene. Bright, beautiful shafts of brilliant sunshine streamed through my open window, along with a soft breeze which cooled, gently whistled and carried on it the robotically dulcet (or perhaps dulcetly robotic) tones of what appeared to be a white Volkswagen van, having a conversation with the man in the driver's seat. David Hasselhoff was nowhere in sight, thank God.
Rather, the man was Mr. G. Cook (or one of his sons), and he was a specialist plastering contractor. A small crowd gathered to watch the (female) VW, with its broad Glaswegian accent, warning Mr. Cook that he'd encounter roadworks on the way home that evening, but that this was no excuse for him to return to the abode without the items from the shopping list which he would find folded in his glove compartment. He looked distressed, poor guy.
Now I'm sure that I and the other early risers were fully aware that what we were bearing witness to was no more science fictional than the world's loudest hands-free car-phone system (volume level 11); but nonetheless, the scene was nothing short of a spectacle. With all windows firmly closed, the showdown's vociferous momentum appeared very much one-sided; whilst the other side (Mr. Cook's) played out like a silent film. Mr. C's anguish soon turned to mild rage, as he gesticulated wildly and mouthed angrily, ocassionally spitting soundless venom at the suggestions that he was 'good for nothing' and 'a silly liar, of course it's in there, you're not looking properly. Idiot.' He was looking; though in his shoes, I'd probably have been looking a lot harder.
After about four minutes of to-ing and fro-ing like this, both parties seemed resigned to the fact that the shopping list was not in the glove compartment. VANessa** dictated a new list, which consisted only of eggs, milk, bread and triple-A batteries anyway. I think -I hope- they found a resolution; after all, it was such a beautiful morning.
No-one said anything to Mr. C about his speaker-phone's outside emissions, perhaps wary that he would fix it, depriving potential/future audiences of such high quality morning entertainment. As he hung up and drove away down Park Terrace, Mr. G. Cook, specialist plastering contractor, looked to be taking his show national. His dramatic presence and booming VANessa are sure to turn heads in and around parking spaces up and down the country; and assuming that Park Terrace was the first of his tour dates, the motoring celebrity stakes have been infinitely raised on this little strip of curb.
In the vain anticipation of something equally as captivating this morning, I tentatively strayed to the dark (actually, excruciatingly bright) side of craziness, and willingly arose with the sun: 7:16am. What a mistake. As it turns out, the Saturday morning rollers are neither entertaining, nor are they at all competent. Maybe it's the exciting prospect of two full days off work, or the disabling hangover from the night before, but there are only so many near-crashes that can occur on such a small one-way street. But occur they did. Shockingly.
The most common shortcoming of the Saturday morning driver lies in their incapacity to parallel park. On at least four separate occassions, the smallest of run-arounds spent 2-3 minutes each bashing the cars behind and in front of them, in a manner akin to that scene in Austin Powers (you know, the one that is actually quite funny?!). Some eventually realised their inadequacy and drove away in search of fresh pastures and wide-open (foolproof parking) spaces; others persevered, parked, surveyed the damage inflicted on the other vehicles, shrugged and walked away, seemingly guilt-free. Aside from the clarity of their consciences, my morning motorist musings have moved me to ponder whether the proposal of regular, continued driver testing is not, in fact, a fine idea.
Granted, this is coming from the girl whose licence is dubiously and unjustifiably held; for whom it was not until the second driving test that 'Give Way' meant anything at all; and whose car -Nissan Mike- has come under police scrutiny for its disconcerting array of bumps and bruises. But I'm on crutches at the moment, and there is no danger that I will be getting behind a wheel for at least 6 weeks, so no-one's complaining. Least of all, Mr. G. Cook: with his early starts, enigmatic roadshow and tricksy shopping list, he's got bigger fish to fry.
* Pop sensation, Diana Vickers is one example, singing 'I wanna wake with the sunlight in my eyes'. I doubt it; that sounds painful and ridiculous.
** I have no idea what her real name is; this seems apt.
Some people like to rise with the sun. They're crazy*.
Other people aren't affected in the slightest by those incandescent rays creeping through the gap in their curtains at 7.16am, but find themselves rising unjustly shortly after daybreak nonetheless, when awoken by those people who do like to rise with the sun. They are gradually driven crazy.
Indeed, I was compelled to seriously question my sanity yesterday morning, when woken up not only by the resounding lunacy and sprightly patter of the early morning joggers, but by the accompanying vocals of a talking van.
The Park Terrace parking spaces have seen their fair share of illustrious vehicles: A string of Land Rovers, BMWs and Audi family saloons frequent the street, exploiting the post-6.30pm charge-drop to make the most of an early-evening bite at Pizza Express or a romantic slap-up meal at the University Arms. A small, sexy, pastel blue Figaro was recently spied sauntering on the corner; and the loitering Harley Davidsons are a hit among the boys who need something masculine to sit on, stare at and discuss on a Friday night, because they are 15 and there is nothing else for them to do. Every so often, a souped-up Subaru zips past, exercising the freedom of screech heralded by the traffic warden taking his evening leave; and some of Cambridge's more pimped-out automobiles have been known to cruise round here for honeyz. Overall, any motoring excitement on Park Terrace is a strictly nocturnal affair. That is, until now...
Morning broke over Parker's Piece without any overt signal that it was to soon provide the backdrop for the performance of a distinctly Knightrider-esque scene. Bright, beautiful shafts of brilliant sunshine streamed through my open window, along with a soft breeze which cooled, gently whistled and carried on it the robotically dulcet (or perhaps dulcetly robotic) tones of what appeared to be a white Volkswagen van, having a conversation with the man in the driver's seat. David Hasselhoff was nowhere in sight, thank God.
Rather, the man was Mr. G. Cook (or one of his sons), and he was a specialist plastering contractor. A small crowd gathered to watch the (female) VW, with its broad Glaswegian accent, warning Mr. Cook that he'd encounter roadworks on the way home that evening, but that this was no excuse for him to return to the abode without the items from the shopping list which he would find folded in his glove compartment. He looked distressed, poor guy.
Now I'm sure that I and the other early risers were fully aware that what we were bearing witness to was no more science fictional than the world's loudest hands-free car-phone system (volume level 11); but nonetheless, the scene was nothing short of a spectacle. With all windows firmly closed, the showdown's vociferous momentum appeared very much one-sided; whilst the other side (Mr. Cook's) played out like a silent film. Mr. C's anguish soon turned to mild rage, as he gesticulated wildly and mouthed angrily, ocassionally spitting soundless venom at the suggestions that he was 'good for nothing' and 'a silly liar, of course it's in there, you're not looking properly. Idiot.' He was looking; though in his shoes, I'd probably have been looking a lot harder.
After about four minutes of to-ing and fro-ing like this, both parties seemed resigned to the fact that the shopping list was not in the glove compartment. VANessa** dictated a new list, which consisted only of eggs, milk, bread and triple-A batteries anyway. I think -I hope- they found a resolution; after all, it was such a beautiful morning.
No-one said anything to Mr. C about his speaker-phone's outside emissions, perhaps wary that he would fix it, depriving potential/future audiences of such high quality morning entertainment. As he hung up and drove away down Park Terrace, Mr. G. Cook, specialist plastering contractor, looked to be taking his show national. His dramatic presence and booming VANessa are sure to turn heads in and around parking spaces up and down the country; and assuming that Park Terrace was the first of his tour dates, the motoring celebrity stakes have been infinitely raised on this little strip of curb.
In the vain anticipation of something equally as captivating this morning, I tentatively strayed to the dark (actually, excruciatingly bright) side of craziness, and willingly arose with the sun: 7:16am. What a mistake. As it turns out, the Saturday morning rollers are neither entertaining, nor are they at all competent. Maybe it's the exciting prospect of two full days off work, or the disabling hangover from the night before, but there are only so many near-crashes that can occur on such a small one-way street. But occur they did. Shockingly.
The most common shortcoming of the Saturday morning driver lies in their incapacity to parallel park. On at least four separate occassions, the smallest of run-arounds spent 2-3 minutes each bashing the cars behind and in front of them, in a manner akin to that scene in Austin Powers (you know, the one that is actually quite funny?!). Some eventually realised their inadequacy and drove away in search of fresh pastures and wide-open (foolproof parking) spaces; others persevered, parked, surveyed the damage inflicted on the other vehicles, shrugged and walked away, seemingly guilt-free. Aside from the clarity of their consciences, my morning motorist musings have moved me to ponder whether the proposal of regular, continued driver testing is not, in fact, a fine idea.
Granted, this is coming from the girl whose licence is dubiously and unjustifiably held; for whom it was not until the second driving test that 'Give Way' meant anything at all; and whose car -Nissan Mike- has come under police scrutiny for its disconcerting array of bumps and bruises. But I'm on crutches at the moment, and there is no danger that I will be getting behind a wheel for at least 6 weeks, so no-one's complaining. Least of all, Mr. G. Cook: with his early starts, enigmatic roadshow and tricksy shopping list, he's got bigger fish to fry.
* Pop sensation, Diana Vickers is one example, singing 'I wanna wake with the sunlight in my eyes'. I doubt it; that sounds painful and ridiculous.
** I have no idea what her real name is; this seems apt.
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Day 5: Ladies' football
In spite of common misconceptions, ladies' football is not for the fragile, the faint-hearted, or even (I add at the risk of being lynched by 11 fearless footballing fillies) the particularly feminine. No, the ball is not deflated a little bit to make it softer for those toe-punts, and yes, the offside rule is understood beyond the realms of teriyaki sauce and posh French mustard. It is dangerous, and when blood is spilt - and believe me, it has been spilt- play must continue. Girls can header -hell, they can even chest- a ball. They can tackle; they can slide tackle; and they can slide tackle studs up and break your ankle.
However, unlike the many strong men and women the world over whose passion for the beautiful game have led them -heads held high- to the battlefield where sporting history is played out, and where dreams have been both gloriously forged and brutally felled, it was not my dreams that were shattered, just my fibula. But I'm not bitter; I'm wiser. I am now more sure than ever that football is not my forte.
On the other hand, voyeurism comes incredibly naturally, and although I will not be gracing Parkers' Piece with my studs and skills any time soon, my new desk (directly overlooking said 25 acre grassy expanse, home of a newly erected ice rink, Emmanuel College sports teams' practices, the most anal traffic warden in the world, and a hub of general recreational frivolity) is perfectly positioned for people watching.
And so, casting aside all qualms previously harboured and vehemently expressed re: blogging/bloggers/blogs/dickheads (the tables have turned: dickhead and peg-leg are apparently now synonymous, and also almost rhyme), here I present the invalid observations of an invalid just enjoying the view.
Without straying into the potentially uninteresting and definitely cringe territory of thoughts and feelings on ambitions and aspirations, tales of work and woe, or (god forbid) how my day was, I instead aim to provide a sort of running commentary on the epic goings-on and unfurling phenomena of Parkers Piece: from Cambridge's favourite wintry fashion trends, to peculiar exercise regimes that might just work, to frequent reports on the progress of local sports teams (EC ultimate frisbee have been warming up for about 2 hours now, though seem to have forgotten their frisbee), and various techniques to talk your way out of that damn parking ticket.
There is little doubt that I do not appear dissimilar to a nosy old woman, for the most part bed-bound, with a crutch always at hand to peel back the curtain and peer at unsuspecting passers-by. Occasionally, when displeased, I even shake my fist or mutter angrily about the youth. And never was this so true than today (day 5 of my installation here), around 2pm, when the loud slap of a football hitting the pavement could be heard outside, dangerously close to the window. The Pink Panthers (Emmanuel College Ladies' Football Team) were enjoying their weekly training session on Parker's Piece. They seemed to be practicing kicking the ball as hard and as far as possible. Great.
The team are doing well. Although knocked out of the Cuppers competition (due to an unfortunate 1-0 defeat to Newnham's Aggressive and Suspiciously Testosterone-rich Young ladies, or N.A.S.T.Y FC for short), they won their previous league match against Downing ladies 11 goals to nil. Today they exhibited their ability to put a good deal of force behind the ball, tackle effectively, and execute some tight passes in a match situation. Overall, I have high hopes for them and wish them well.
So if, between 1.15 and 2.15 on a Thursday afternoon, you find yourself walking past the Park Terrace side of Parker's Piece, why not show them some encouragement: a rousing cheer instead of a wolf-whistle; 'Nice pass' instead of 'Nice tits'; exaggerated gasps every time someone goes down are entirely unnecessary, as are audible remarks about whether they know how to kick a ball. Do not let their bright pink shirts fool you, these girls are serious, and they're all really pretty good.
Parkers' Piece also today played host to the aforementioned, enthusiastic ultimate frisbee team, whose unfathomable sport consists of long warming up and cooling down periods, and an apparent obligation on the part of each player to roll on the ground like a sausage to collect the frisbee every time it landed outside of the pitch. There were no pitch markings, which confused things further; and if they try to claim they have an offside rule, I can tell you, they're lying.
Various rugby and lacrosse teams did their various violent things throughout the day, though it was definitely the rogue Panther ball which provided the most tangible threat from the other side of the single-glazed bay window. Excruciating visions of smashed glass accompanied those of the broken bones and shattered dreams which seem to shape football's reputation as a physical and emotional rollercoaster, a perilous feat, for so many; even girls. Given the circumastance, and my strong conviction that if that ball comes any closer to this window next week, I swear I will ensure that there are shards of bones and dreams all over the shop, I'd go as far as to say: Especially girls.
However, unlike the many strong men and women the world over whose passion for the beautiful game have led them -heads held high- to the battlefield where sporting history is played out, and where dreams have been both gloriously forged and brutally felled, it was not my dreams that were shattered, just my fibula. But I'm not bitter; I'm wiser. I am now more sure than ever that football is not my forte.
On the other hand, voyeurism comes incredibly naturally, and although I will not be gracing Parkers' Piece with my studs and skills any time soon, my new desk (directly overlooking said 25 acre grassy expanse, home of a newly erected ice rink, Emmanuel College sports teams' practices, the most anal traffic warden in the world, and a hub of general recreational frivolity) is perfectly positioned for people watching.
And so, casting aside all qualms previously harboured and vehemently expressed re: blogging/bloggers/blogs/dickheads (the tables have turned: dickhead and peg-leg are apparently now synonymous, and also almost rhyme), here I present the invalid observations of an invalid just enjoying the view.
Without straying into the potentially uninteresting and definitely cringe territory of thoughts and feelings on ambitions and aspirations, tales of work and woe, or (god forbid) how my day was, I instead aim to provide a sort of running commentary on the epic goings-on and unfurling phenomena of Parkers Piece: from Cambridge's favourite wintry fashion trends, to peculiar exercise regimes that might just work, to frequent reports on the progress of local sports teams (EC ultimate frisbee have been warming up for about 2 hours now, though seem to have forgotten their frisbee), and various techniques to talk your way out of that damn parking ticket.
There is little doubt that I do not appear dissimilar to a nosy old woman, for the most part bed-bound, with a crutch always at hand to peel back the curtain and peer at unsuspecting passers-by. Occasionally, when displeased, I even shake my fist or mutter angrily about the youth. And never was this so true than today (day 5 of my installation here), around 2pm, when the loud slap of a football hitting the pavement could be heard outside, dangerously close to the window. The Pink Panthers (Emmanuel College Ladies' Football Team) were enjoying their weekly training session on Parker's Piece. They seemed to be practicing kicking the ball as hard and as far as possible. Great.
The team are doing well. Although knocked out of the Cuppers competition (due to an unfortunate 1-0 defeat to Newnham's Aggressive and Suspiciously Testosterone-rich Young ladies, or N.A.S.T.Y FC for short), they won their previous league match against Downing ladies 11 goals to nil. Today they exhibited their ability to put a good deal of force behind the ball, tackle effectively, and execute some tight passes in a match situation. Overall, I have high hopes for them and wish them well.
So if, between 1.15 and 2.15 on a Thursday afternoon, you find yourself walking past the Park Terrace side of Parker's Piece, why not show them some encouragement: a rousing cheer instead of a wolf-whistle; 'Nice pass' instead of 'Nice tits'; exaggerated gasps every time someone goes down are entirely unnecessary, as are audible remarks about whether they know how to kick a ball. Do not let their bright pink shirts fool you, these girls are serious, and they're all really pretty good.
Parkers' Piece also today played host to the aforementioned, enthusiastic ultimate frisbee team, whose unfathomable sport consists of long warming up and cooling down periods, and an apparent obligation on the part of each player to roll on the ground like a sausage to collect the frisbee every time it landed outside of the pitch. There were no pitch markings, which confused things further; and if they try to claim they have an offside rule, I can tell you, they're lying.
Various rugby and lacrosse teams did their various violent things throughout the day, though it was definitely the rogue Panther ball which provided the most tangible threat from the other side of the single-glazed bay window. Excruciating visions of smashed glass accompanied those of the broken bones and shattered dreams which seem to shape football's reputation as a physical and emotional rollercoaster, a perilous feat, for so many; even girls. Given the circumastance, and my strong conviction that if that ball comes any closer to this window next week, I swear I will ensure that there are shards of bones and dreams all over the shop, I'd go as far as to say: Especially girls.
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