Warning: the following blog will be filled with nonsense and uninteresting blabber from a teenage girl. Escape while you can.

I suppose I should introduce myself, eh?

My name is Bethan, but you can call me Beth. Call me Bethany and I will not be happy. That is, if you ever talk to me. If not, I'm just the ginger one who rambles on. I turned sixteen a couple of days ago. I am, as you may have already figured out, a ginger. I live in the UK. I'm short. I like to spell things correctly, and it kind of annoys me when other people don't. Hurrah.

So, anyway.

It's the start of the Christmas holidays, and I'm at home. Usually, I would be on a six hour coach to London to spend a week with my dad and cousins who I can't really talk to for some reason. I dislike six hour coaches with a fierce passion; I always seem to get the worst headaches on them. Last year it got so bad that I nearly passed out. But this year I don't have to deal with any of that! I get to stay at home! And not have to put up with the awkward conversations that inevitably occur when speaking to my father, and the lack of any conversation at all when near my cousins.

This will be the first year that I actually get to spend Christmas with my mum for about seven years, and I'm really looking forward to it.

I just looked out of my window to see that the snow has stopped falling, after about an hour and a half it. There's now about two inches, not including the ice. I know that doesn't sound like a hell of a lot, but I live in a very small village, and snow is the height of excitement at this time of year.

If I ever mention the place I live in a negative light, it's because I pretty much hate the place. I'm not really made for living in such a small place. I was born in London, and then left at the age of six because my parents got divorced. It wasn't a bitter break up caused by someone cheating on someone else, it was just that they didn't like to live with each other, so that hasn't screwed up my childhood, in case you were thinking that I was going to whine about all that. My mum and I came here, and my dad still lives there. I really liked living in the city; the noise of the cars sends you to sleep if you live there long enough. And now there's just silence, so I have to listen to the endless ramblings of my mind until it gets so dull that I just fall asleep.

Oh! You might be wanting a picture of me. If not, just avert your eyes from the ugly; it'll go away soon enough.

There we go. I don't look too happy in it, and I can't remember why, but it will do for the time being, don't you think? If you don't think, then don't answer. It was probably a rhetorical question anyway.

And yes, if you were wondering, that is a purple plushy of a stick man. His name is Ralph. I wouldn't get too close to him, if I were you. He got his left leg caught in a drawer a little while ago, and ever since, he's been rather intent on revenge.

Anyway. I'm in a bit of a drawing mood, so I suppose I should get on with that. If I don't post before Christmas, have a good one, all of you, my dear, dear stalkers.