As per request (albeit from someone who fails to reciprocate 
) there hereby follows some (not terribly well lit, sorry) photos of my third year rooms:
This landing is mine, all mine I tells ya!
The first room is uninspiring but does contain that all important sink
And here we are: my cosy dwellings
Table exclusively to be used for guests + tea, I imagine
Just a quick dispatch this morning \ afternoon! It’s coming direct from the computer room because, alas, instant Internet connectivity at the beginning of the year still seems to be an unattainable goal. (Caius have actually instituted a shiny new system which authorises your computer online and doesn’t require any tiresome carrying-of-the-laptop-across-town anymore. Sadly, it’s crashed for the weekend.)
Nonetheless, everything is currently bright and happy and good! Our new house has the strangest interior layout you ever did see, and – very weirdly – I now have two separate rooms on my own little landing. (One is smaller, with a sink and a wardrobe.) Oliver and Abi, meanwhile, have rooms with incredibly high ceilings; Oliver in particular looks like he’s moved into a mini-cathedral. What’s really luxurious, though, is the location. I’ve always mentioned rather a few times that it’s on the same road as Sainsbury’s, but it’s also on the same road as Borders, and indeed one can walk through said bookshop as a shortcut right into the centre of town. At last!
Abi’s parents took me, Oliver and (obviously) Abi out for dinner last night, which was remarkably nice of them, especially as Abi seemed to delight in setting up points of debate. (“Argue about immigration!”) It was very civilised, however, and I am assured that I didn’t let the liberal side down over dinner – all the more notable given that Abi’s dad kept sneakily topping up my wine.
Other things of note: I’ve finally ordered a Caius hoodie (twas meant to be!) and am now technically eligible to read the Latin grace at dinner. There’s a form to fill out to let the Dean know if you want to, and attached is an FAQ covering such topics as ‘But isn’t it a bit Christian?’ – yes indeed, we are informed, and so naturally I won’t be taking part*
(*Even though I’d get a free glass of claret.)
Argh! I had such a lovely day today, and I refuse to let it be spoilt by the traditional headache-inducing stress over last-minute packing arrangements.
Stupid packing.
I spent quite a bit of today, my last day of the ‘summer’ holiday, back at school. You may very well find this strange – nay, downright disturbing – but it’s a free country \ I know my rights! \ wot evah [delete as applicable]. I particularly came in to see Mr. Buchanan who was also visiting to a well-deserved hero’s welcome from staff and students alike. (Battling cancer, sure, but that’s not why Year 11 boys ran into the English office to hug him. It’s because he’s a bloody great teacher.) Both of us were then invited to join Ms. Rupchand’s A2 English class. Y’know, for fun 
And what do you know – they’re doing Othello. Yay! And Iago’s being wonderfully viciously evil, Roderigo’s being oh so very very thick and Cassio can’t hold his drink, as per usual. I love this play. Iago thinks the lusty Moor’s ‘leaped into his seat’. “FUCKED HIS WIFE!” yells Jimmy, hands bestriding the air. The class collapses with laughter, like we used to – like everyone should. Desdemona’s still going to end up ‘deaded’ but for now she’s very much alive and not yet fallen pray to defiant-Shakespearian-female-crumpling-halfway-through syndrome. Good for her.
Did you know: I walked past Peter Mandelson the other day? I did indeed. Looking suave, as always. I love his relish.
As second break begins I leave with Saoirse, who’s coming over to have tea, and we collide with Tasha. The three of us go home and end up watching Lady and the Tramp on VHS in order to beef-up Saoirse’s Disney education. It’s wonderful. Old things, VHS tapes. You have to rewind them: our machine has a super-fast rewind. That used to be a selling feature, advertised on the box. Imagine that! The quality of the tape is variable at best: the colours look like they’ve been drudged through a muddy puddle and favourite scenes are interspersed with flashes of snowy black and white. It’s wonderful. No, really, it is. There’s an orchestral soundtrack perfectly timed to all the little movements of the characters. Tramp calls Lady pidge, but it sounds a lot like bitch and makes us giggle. Two Italian men, one fat and one thin, prepare a romantic meal for a stray dog and his date. What a nice thing to do.
Bu-le-ee-ee-tt-tt pr-oo-oo-ff!
I haven’t blogged in an abysmally long time, and since I know for a fact that the ever-reliable Abbi will be sitting down to blog right around now, even at this late hour, I thought I would too. We’re both back from seeing Twin Atlantic (my hearing is still sub-optimal) – it really is a delight to be taken gigging by someone qualified enough to address my lifetime deficiency. One of the highlights from this evening must undoubtedly be the (multiple) attempts made by the lead singer of one of the support bands to mosh with me… it certainly made Abbi laugh
I’m also well into the swing of seeing people ‘for the last time before December’. (Nic even turned up the other week!) Joshua served up his famous pesto for Abbi, Emily, Marcus and I last night – Marcus being a familiar figure from various SexFests (or ‘New Year parties’, if you prefer) but now having moved to London properly from Greece for university. Hearing about his struggle to get his Greek qualifications recognised over here, or talking to Abbi about the seemingly endless quest to get British citizenship, always induces a mixture of pride and frustration in me. Pride that London still retains its magnetic pull across the globe – and long may it remain so – but frustration that the free movement of people is still so impaired. One day, and it might be a very long time in coming, this is going to seem as ridiculous as serfdom.
Anyway. Off to see the human being butterfly (when she runs she’s mighty fly) tomorrow, so time for sleep. Goodnight!
It’s a quiet, reflective day today. Almost (almost 
) a touch melancholic, although the truth is that just by typing ‘melancholic’ I feel instantly rather better – a wry appreciation of how my mood really does not actually qualify by any stretch of the imagination. I think I’m just a bit out of practice at having relaxed, solitary days after a summer of seeing people, having lunches with people, drinking with people, going to fabulous dinner parties expertly hosted by Andy Kings (with people), and so on.
(Either that or I’m uncomfortably close to finishing Nights At The Circus and sad at the prospect of leaving it behind. Ah, Angela Carter. When I first read Wise Children at the beginning of Year 12 I didn’t really get it, and it took Mr Buchanan’s intense enthusiasm to jump-start my brain into appreciating it. He also advised me to read One Hundred Years of Solitude – something else I eventually foisted onto Book Club – which I loved too. Thank you, Jimmy )
Less than two weeks now before I disappear up the West Anglia Main Line for one last hectic year of Cambridge. (Some people allude to geography through the incantation of dull road names – not me.) Robert’s already long climbed the West Coast Main Line for Manchester (see, I really mean it), Lucy’s in a bit of a quantum flux between Birmingham and Brighton (via the… ur… don’t worry) but will soon crystallise on the latter, and yesterday I bade farewell to Sanna before she relocated today to Norwich. Which was nice, as tea at Sanna’s always is, and we learnt all about the units of monsters.
Oh what raucous secret parties must be held by Joshua, Saoirse and Abbi in our absence…
Linda Moffitt on Colombia: “Such a sweet memory of the four of you meeting up in Colombia!” Dec 2, 07:42
