Initially I planned to see the new year in at Manics gig with my penpal Jen, but both sets of parents took it upon themselves to forbid it. Then I assumed someone in my former school year would have a big party and invite me, but invitations failed to be issued in my general direction. I proceeded to resign myself to an evening of pants TV with my family, only for Chris to invite me to a social gathering. I was then so excited by the prospect of beginning the new millennium (oh yes it is!) in Penrith that when these arrangements were cancelled, I more-or-less invited myself to stay with Smill instead. I was desperate.

And so I came to begin the new year largin' it at The Mill Inn (celebrating The New Mill-Inn-Ium, of course), entertainment epicentre of the known universe, and getting high.

"What?" I hear you cry. "Zed took drugs? I don't believe it!"

And right you are to have no faith, for I did no such thing. After all, I don't need to. I got high in the sense that I climbed the thirteenth highest mountain in England.

You are probably finding this even harder to believe than your initial assumption. But 'tis the truth! I have witnesses! I have evidence! Behold!

To my surprise, The Mill Inn turned out to be rather funchie. At midnight, we went outside to watch some fireworks. As Smill and self made our way back inside, a bloke who works there said, "We're going to climb Blencathra at 4.30 this morning. Want to come?"

Three thoughts occurred to me in rapid succession:

1. The voice of My Memory For Useless Information:
"The wind howled around my feet as I stumbled along Sharp Edge, a steep ridge on the mountain Blen Cathra in the Lake District. My parents were ahead of me somewhere. I cursed my bad luck, I had taken a wrong turning somewhere and was now climbing a very steep rock face. A mist had formed over the top of the mountain and a hard driving rain splashed against my face as I inched onwards. My strength began to fail as I looked downwards, into the steep drop below me towards the rocky ground miles away from me. A fall would seriously hurt and that was what I wanted to avoid. I was beginning to think I wasn't going to make it, but as I looked upwards, into the gloom, I saw a flat edge. My spirits began to rise as I saw it and I began to desperately edge my way slowly upward. But the weather was against me. A shrill ghostly wind blew against me and I felt my grip beginning to loosen on the grey sharp rock I was stretched flat out against. In panic I began to move faster, to reach the life saving top. Fate was against me this dark day as an unmerciful wind blew harshly in my face. My grip on the mountain side was lost, and I felt myself begin to fall. I screamed in terror as the mountain top rapidly got further away from me, my hands flung out in sheer desperation as I groped thin air for somewhere to break my steadily increasing fall to my doom. I found none, as I looked downwards, at the harsh rocky ground not far now below me I knew, it was the end! I hit solid ground with a thud, unbearable pain lanced through my broken body, then I knew nothing more!"
[Taken from the cheerfully titled The Eternal Damnation Of Death by Alex F (a fairly funchie story, if you like alternative universe type stoof).]

2. The Voice of Reason:
"Zed, you hate walking, especially up fells. You haven't climbed a fell since your parents dragged you up the Cold Fell (which features in "Harmless Fells For Old Fogies") when you were fourteen, and then you whined all the way up and feared for your life all the way down." (I'm v. scared of heights.)

3. The Voice Of The Double Vodka-And-Orange I'd Consumed In Its Entirety A Minute Earlier:
"Ah, you only live once. You'll probably never have this opportunity again, and it certainly not on the first day of the year 2000."

The alcohol had it. "Yeah," I said, just as Smill said, "I think not."

"She said yes!" the guy exclaimed in glee.

"You're joking, right?" Smill asked me.

"No," I replied, not entirely sure myself. But as the night wore on, Smill changed her mind. "It sounds fun," she said, finally. "Let's do it."

And so we left the pub at 1am, and back in Smillville, we sorted out what clothes to take. I was a little hesitant: thermals, a t-shirt, a polo-neck, a fleece, a coat AND a waterproof? We were going for a walk, weren't we? And doesn't going for a walk require you to have the ability to, like, move? Still, having not walked for four years did not put me in the best position to argue.

I was not a happy camper when Smill kicked me at 3.30am. Hang on a second, we weren't in the same bed. Of course we weren't! What was I thinking? I mean, she entered the room, hissed my name, and I woke with a start.

"What do you want to do?" she asked, seeing my reluctance to emerge from between the sheets.

Option 1: Walk up a v. dangerous mountain in pitch darkness.
Option 2: Sleep.

"I'd rather just stay here," I said, "if you don't mind."

"No," she said, and left the room.

Immediately, I regretted my decision. Of course, what I'd said made sense, but the alternative would have been way cooler (in more than one sense of the word). As I tried to snuggle into the covers once more, I knew that I'd have difficulty getting back to sleep. I was wide awake now, and I didn't want to lose-

Smill opened the door again. "It sounds like fun," she said.

"It does," I conceded. After only a slight hesitation, I followed with, "Let's do it. We can always change our minds later."

Half an hour later, as I watched Smill packing a compass, some matches, flares and a tin opener (should we chance upon some tinned food left by other failed climbers), I was getting a little worried again. However, the only doubts I voiced were those that the others involved in this mission weren't serious about it at all, and were merely playing a joke on us. Smill shared these.

But no, the other four (two sisters - Nicky and Becka? - and two brothers - James and Ian?) were prepared to go. Trouble was, none of them were awake.

And so, Smill and self sat in the house Nicky and Becka were occupying, watching the continuing Millennium celebrations on TV. There was some well weird stuff on, including an archaeologist displaying Anglo-Saxon excrement and a bloke who ate metal.

Just as we were about to give up hope, the others emerged.

Between us we had three torches, but someone had the bright (or not v. bright) idea of leaving them off where we thought we could get away with it. And so we stumbled over rocks and our feet sank into the boggy bits. Then we literally walked through a stream. Only about three inches deep, but enough to soak everyone's socks (yes, all forty nine pairs).

I know I'm always on the look out for New Experiences with which to spice up my life. And I'm fully aware that while some may be good, such as eating my first Penguin, while others may be not so good, such as having to dance with a half-naked bloke who really fancied himself. But getting trench foot, I decided, was a bridge [or lack of bridge] too far.

Nevertheless, we made it through the first leg of the journey (the relatively flat bit) and our legs struggled through the second leg (the uphill bit). Whenever we took a major break, I took pictures with my digital camera, attempting to capture the breath-taking views. Unfortunately, of the five photos I took before the sun came up fully, all showed nothing but blackness.

When we came to the top of the hill in front of our destination, we reviewed the situation.

We were all knackered and the mountain top was lost in a cloud, so there seemed little point in going any further. We had come a long, long way together, but as it was, we had a great view and it wasn't too cold and windy. So we sat down, ate chocolate and watched other hopefuls ascending. And, of course, the sunrise. To my surprise, I got a decent photo of the sky. Naturally, I was trying to capture the street lights of Penrith instead, but there you go.

About an hour later, we noticed that the mist had gone from Ye Glorious Snowy Peak. And so we decided to carry on, despite our feet now being blocks of ice. But before that we took group photos. Once again, mine went wrong, showing only a silhouette of the people, but it hardly mattered: the sky was funchie.

The final stage, however, was anything but. The slope became steeper. There were hollows in the ground that acted as footholds, but most were filled with ice-cased snow. The grass was slippery, and the rocks couldn't be trusted. To make matters worse, there was no protection from the powerful icy wind. It ripped off Smill's hat and threatened to tear away my tenuous grip of the mountain side.

The summit seemed like miles away - but worse still, so did the valley. I couldn't stand to look at the most glorious stages of the sunrise, because it involved facing what appeared to be a perilous drop. Furthermore, the harder ascent became, the more fearful I was about ever getting down again.

Still, encouraged by Smill and gasping for breath, I reached the top. Fearing the wind would steal the leather case of my digital camera, I used up the final three pictures, pointing the camera in different directions.

I wish I had a photo of how the mountain appeared from below, but nay, I couldn't get one. Scank memory card.

Anyway, after a couple minutes, we had to leave. It was nine am and Nicky had to start work at the pub at eleven, poor thing. The climb had taken about three hours, not counting the long break, so we had to make haste.

To my relief, we took a different route down. It wasn't a great improvement: within minutes, I had slipped over on a patch of ice, and after that the second most appealing possibility (the first being a helicopter) was to continue downwards by shuffling along on my behind. Smill wouldn't hear of it though - they were her tracksuit bottoms - so she helped me across what was a veritable ice rink, and she and James held my hands as we completed the most scary downward section.

I thought, "I don't often have a bloke holding my hand. Or a girl. And certainly not both at the same time." The fact that we were all wearing twenty seven pairs of gloves quickly dispelled any bisexual fantasies, mind.

We passed a precipice, which I refused to go near, and observed the aforementioned Sharp Edge. The remainder of the path was steeper than that which we'd come along, but being able to see it made life a lot easier. The main problem was that with every step, my toes dug into the material of Smill's sister's walking boots. I was reluctant to try James and Ian's Alternative Method Of Descent, which consisted of rolling on the snowy slopes alongside the path, but I found a slight reprieve in walking backwards for a while. Nevertheless, by the time I got home, the third and fourth toes of my right foot were causing intense agony with every movement.

Before that, however, I had three and a half hours in Smillville to endure. Aside the fact that replacing six hours sleep with a strenuous four-and-a-half hour walk usually results in Extreme Tiredness, Smill's mother had organised a buffet lunch which resulted in Extremely Boring Conversation ("Isn't it glorious weather?") and Extreme Cringeworthiness ("Would you like another nibble?") I attempted to phone my parents to come and rescue me earlier than 2.30pm, but the bleendogs were out.

Needless to say, I have "The Fool On The Hill" stuck in my head and am a little exhausted. Byezeep.

Sunday 2 January 2000

"So, Zed. Which mountain did you climb today? Scafell Pike? The appropriately named Helvellyn? Or had you had enough of these poxy English fells and hike over to Everest?"

In actual fact, I went on several climbs. Down the stairs to have breakfast, then back up again to go on the Internet. Down to have lunch and back up to read "3862 days", the Blur biography. Down to go on the exercise bike for the duration of three songs, before collapsing in a breathless heap and staggering back up again, to resume reading. And then, best of all, down to have dinner, then back up again in order to writhe in agony over my Delayed-Reaction Hangover. What a feat!

Needless to say, this isn't going to be the longest or most interesting entry I've ever written. However, I do something useful today, for I made a discovery: how to use the timer on my beloved digital camera. The only problem with this is, the only possible use for this would be to take pictures of myself. And it's a widely known fact that I can break lenses by simply thinking about them.

Friday 21 January 2000

Oh yoj! Oh rapture! The Cambridge term hath restarted and my mailbox shalt be filled with bumph from mailing lists I don't know how to escape from! Only now do I realise the biggest mistake in my life: agreeing to receive information from the Physics society.

I remember it clearly. My instinct was to keep the form and run, but in a sea of over-zealous Natscis (Natural Scientists), I felt I should at least feign an interest in the subject I would spend quarter of the year studying (if only because Materials seemed too boring and Geology too pointless).

Besides, I have been to one good Physics lecture in my life. It wasn't, perhaps, the most educational of affairs - I seem to remember the lecturer soaking a banana in dry ice, talking in a helium voice and getting someone to recite the tongue-twister "I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm a pleasant fu-" See? I can't even type it, never mind say it. Still, it was funchie! The sixth form Physicists boarded the bus to take us back to sunny Cumbria saying "Shan on you crazy geographers" who'd had to spend the day doing Things Most Geographical in deepest darkest Manchester.

Other memories of that special occasion, November 97? Paul being the only one to vaguely follow Mr Dimond's instruction of "dress smartly" by turning up in a suit while everyone else wore jeans. Sarah whining about having to sit next to Smill. Chris giving me a Kitkat. The fourth lecturer introducing himself and his student companions as "Alan on guitar, Moshe on the keyboard and Physics, and me on the Physics". (Yes, it was about sound waves. I think. I fell asleep after the so-called music stopped.) And on the journey home, listening to Liz and Johnny have an intense discussion about baking cakes.

Yes, we got some good field trips out of Physics. Well, two. The perilous walk to another school to watch some geen hand out cans of "Primordial Soup" doesn't count, because I didn't get to miss any lessons (only Religion and a double free).

No, the best Physics trip was the one to the Clean Room in June 1998, which was a surprise. What's a clean room? you may well ask, since I hadn't heard of one beforehand or since. Well, surprisingly enough, it's a room that's clean. So clean it squeaks. The sort of room every detergent company longs to use in their adverts, but can't, owing the complex gymnastic manoeuvres necessary to enter.

Not only do you have to put a suit, a hat, on two pairs of boots, gloves and a surgeon's mask, all of which are disposed with after the exercise, but you have to do this without them touching anything. This includes the outside environment, floors, certain benches, and the clothes you're wearing, all of which are utterly filthy, according to the two lecturers, who, despite reading books about clean room technology for pleasure, were rather entertaining.

Still, the three funniest parts of the day had to be:

1. Upon entering the clean room, we were to record data about its cleanliness onto a computer. "You do that," Helen Gilligan told me, knowing I was the one wanting to do Computer Science at university.

But of course, it was a Scank Dodgy PC Of Dume, the likes of which I had never used before so I had to ask, "Um, how?"

2. When he first met, interrogated and insulted us, the lecturer asked the name of the girl sitting at the end of the row. "Helen," she said.

A little later, he asked the name of the girl sitting beside her. "Helen," she said.

"Two Helens," he marvelled. But, quite by chance, the third girl from the end happened to be the other Helen, and when she told him her name, he became hysterical.

3. While half the group was inside, the others were filming us and giving us announcements using Radio Clean Room. One of the exercises we had to do was dance (apparently movement generates dirt), so the five of us formed a circle and performed ring-a-ring-of-roses. Glad of the opportunity to dance, I inserted my usual fancy footwork.

But afterwards, Alice The DJ announced that they hadn't been able to see that, could we do it again more ostentatiously? So we obliged . . . only to later discover that they'd seen the original and found it so funny they needed a repeat performance. Naturally, this sequence was replayed several times in the Physics lesson the following Monday.

Which just happened to be the day I went to Cambridge for the first time. Which makes me think (a first): if the visit to the Clean Room hadn't restored my faith in science, I may have been more reluctant to apply to Cambridge to study a scientific subject. And if I hadn't done that, I wouldn't be currently under bombardment of meaningless inescapable e-mail.

It's as I always thought. Physics, even when it's good, is completely evil!