Arrrrrrgh!

When am I going to get round to sacking Will as a confidant? Shouldn't I have learnt my lesson by now?

You see, telling Will things has never worked out terribly well in the past. Give him the merest whiff of scandal and he'll cause you to import twenty five tons of air freshener to get rid of the pong. The worst thing is, people pay attention to his stories.

But no. For some reason, I found myself telling him a smidgen of information about Nightmare In Penrith . . . and he now hates Chris and is planning to beat the living daylights out of him.

Well, not exactly. (Although I must say I'd like to see him try - Will is four inches taller than Smill and weighs seven pounds less, and she's flipping skinny.) But he does think Chris is an unspeakable geen and I can't convince him otherwise.

I suppose it's good fodder for Verbal Voodoo 5. But still: gah. I have caused a rift in my (really small) (rather anti-) social circle! In the words of Virginia Andrews, oh, Momma, how can I live with the sin I have committed?

But how to ameliorate the situation, I don't not know, for I'm not sure of the cause of this swing in opinion. It's possible that he's jealous, but in the same conversation, he told me that people have been asking him, "What's the secret to your success with women?" (Despite only ever having kissed one girl, when he was twelve, he is a total ladies man.) Besides, why would he want an involvement with Chris? Sorry, overused joke, why would he want an involvement with me?

No, it's not like you think. You might have witnessed us getting married in Verbal Voodoo, going to the cinema together numerous times, and being accused of being a couple all the flipping time, but this isn't going to be a case of "they spend two and a half years elbowing each other to death, then realise they [hart] each other after all". It's just not going to happen: apart from anything else, he hates 90% of my music collection (despite having never heard it, mimph) and I can't stand 90% of his (having heard far too much of it).

We are the living contradiction of gender stereotypes, as far as tastes are concerned. He likes Iris Murdoch, I read Irvine Welsh. He likes romantic comedies, my favourite film is "Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels". And while he's mentioning the fact that he worships the Spice Girls daily on his university accommodation application form (he might have to share a room, poor thing roommate), I'm mentally coming up with a list of Catchy Rock Songs released between 1965 and 1995 I can inflict upon Kent University's student body when (well, if) I get my own slot on the radio station.

Having said this, we are going to a concert together in four days time. But, no, it's Not Like That, I just agreed to go along with him so I have an opportunity to assassinate the star, Mel C, since he offered me a free ticket. No, really, I like Mel C, but 1) I never said that and 2) when it comes an overlap in our taste, that's just the beginning, but it's also the end. Hence, I think that we will just be friends, even if things will never be the same again.

Ni, I need Smill, my usual Recipient Of Woe, back, and fast. She returns from Uganda on the 10th, but that's just not soon enough. After all, she doesn't think much of Chris anyway, so nothing I can say can cause any further problems between them . . .

In other news, Noj went back to college today. Well, sort of. He had to go in at 1pm and got to leave after half an hour, in which he learnt that he won't be having any classes on Tuesdays and Wednesdays this year.

The lucky little geenchild! Well, maybe not the "little" part, but when I was his age, I was having six or seven lessons a day, five days a week, interspersed with sitting in the carrels studying! At Cambridge, when I compared notes on sixth form life with my colleagues, they expressed shock over my conditions. "You weren't able to go to the common room in your free lessons?" Alan-who-changed-my-lightbulb exclaimed. "That's inhumane!" But it's true: not only were you meant to study but they kept a record of the names of everyone who was supposed to be in the carrels each lesson.

Ah well, I should be glad I escaped when I did. According to Marion, loads of changes are being implemented. They've replaced the old computer system, refurbished the dining quarters and got rid of the boarders. And now apparently the uniform's altering.

My initial reaction was "Gah!" because the uniform I had to endure was evil. For the first four years, you had no choice but to wear maroon (both icky and distinctive). Then it was either a black blazer or a blue jumper, but it couldn't be a nice, normal navy blue, oh no, but Mouldy Screwdriver Blue. So a change, as far as I was concerned, had to mean an improvement.

But apparently they're introducing capes! Capes! I thought the aim was to modernise the place?

Perhaps they're trying to turn it into Hogwarts so as to get more pupils, given the appeal of "Harry Potter" for nine and ten year olds? (At the moment, the nine-year-old daughter of Jerry [my bandmate] has my copy of "Chamber Of Secrets".)

Note to self: regain ability to play pool before going to university. At one point in time, I was able to clear the table in two turns. In the last two days, I've played it with Noj seven times and lost every game.

Thursday 7 September 2000

Marion and I had a wild night out yesterday.

Sitting in Carlisle station, watching the trains go by.

Admittedly, this wasn't intentional. We met up in the pub at 8pm . . . hang on a minute. That's not right. Let's try again:

Despite having to spend five minutes taking off my boots at the start of the journey (when I discovered that driving in three inch heels is impossible) and putting them back on again when I reached Carlisle, I made it to the pub by eight. Just as I was calling her on her mobile, Marion appeared at 8.15. That's better.

(I know I'm being mean, but she accused me of looking like Michael Jackson (???) so revenge is due.)

But at half past eight, we were restless, and went for a walk. Marion then decided she was hungry, so we spent fifteen minutes in a chip shop. Then, because her mother has forbidden her under pain of death from eating on the street, we and sat in Carlisle station.

Anticipating the thrills ahead, Marion said, "A Virgin train! Look, another Virgin train!"

"Is that a Virgin train?" I joined in. "Gosh, it is!"

And naturally, we saw a Royal Mail train and another carrying freight, but no Virgin trains at all. The disappointment!

However, the evening was not a complete failure, for I managed to extract a bit of gossip: Marion has had her first kiss. Admittedly, it was with a two year old (well, he stuck his tongue out, so we reckon it counts), but that's fine with me. Now I have a manwhore and a paedophile as friends. I wonder who's next?

Will Smill not come back from Uganda in favour of being a prostitute in Nairobi? Will that dream I had about Roe dressing in drag become a reality? Or will Will's dream of becoming Mel C's toy boy come true?

Find out in the next entry!

Ah, yes, I knew I had something else to say. The main reason Marion and I were in Carlisle was to see "Gone In Sixty Seconds". Which we did. Although the most interesting bit of the film was just beforehand when we accidentally walked into the men's toilets and it took us about ten seconds to work out what was wrong, it was ok.

But why did I have to see a car chase film just before I had to drive home? Last time I went to the cinema, I didn't, and we saw "Shanghai Noon" which was set before cars were even invented. Mimph.

So yes, my subsequent driving left a lot to be desired. I travelled about a hundred metres without the lights on, suddenly thought, "Oh beep, lights!" and, in my panic, accidentally switched on the rear windscreen wipers. Then I drove above the speed limit, realised this was bad and slowed down to considerably below it. After two miles of driving like this with a car behind me, it overtook and it was a flipping police car!

I didn't get stopped for speeding, but I'm still nervously awaiting a phone call. But perhaps they'll let me off due to the 'L' plate on the back of the car, which is there because Noj is a learner. For the first time in my life, I am glad to have a brother.

Also, at long last, I can see the recent worldwide appeal of television programmes that promote evil behaviour.

My seven weeks out of Britain prevented me from watching "Big Brother" and despite spending two and a half weeks in America during "Survivor" mania, once the TV worked, Twi and I were far too thrilled at getting "Undressed" to ever find out what all the fuss was about. ("Undressed" is the stupidest programme ever, but it's incredibly addictive.) But I couldn't see the appeal in either.

However, I have become addicted to the quiz show "The Weakest Link" which surely adds a new dimension to the word "evil". The fact that there's a round called "Sudden Death" speaks volumes, but let me expand on how horrible it is.

There are nine contestants, who work together to get as much money as possible by taking it in turns to answer general knowledge questions for about a few minutes. If they answer questions correctly, the amount they can potentially win goes up, but it's set back to zero if someone chooses to bank the money they've earned so far or a question is answered wrongly.

At the end of each round, the super geenic host peers over her glasses and says, "I'm very disappointed in you. You could have won x thousand pounds by now, but you've got a not very impressive one hundred and twenty pounds." Shouldn't she be happy that she doesn't have to pay out a larger sum?

After that, she says, "Who is seriously hindering your progress? It's time to vote off the weakest link." At this point, all the contestants have to vote to get rid of someone. A nasty thing to have to do anyway, but before the person with the most votes is dismissed (with a cold "Goodbye" and no money at that), a few contestants have to explain what compelled them to make their choices. Which means there's no way of getting round saying, "That person was rubbish!" although there's a few variations ("They're too slow", "They're not a team player" and - seriously - "She's younger and prettier than me".)

And then the dismissed person has to say, "Huh, I should have stayed longer! Oh well, their turn to go will come, bwahaha!" And, indeed, only one person gets to leave with the money.

Nasty! But oddly addictive too . . .

Saturday 9 September 2000

With only one minor car accident, Will and I went to see Mel C last night.

No, don't look at me like that! (In fact, it's best not to look at me at all.) I know that if any member of the police force should read this website I'll be instantly arrested for all the terrible driving I've admitted to, but this time it really wasn't my fault.

The concert was due to begin at seven thirty. This would be why Will insisted we arrived by six at the latest. (He is rather a big fan, as everyone standing behind him discovered to their cost. For once in my concert-going experience, I wasn't the shortest and youngest person present.)

So, after forcing myself to abandon the third round of "The Weakest Link" and managing to take the car's handbrake off without Noj's assistance for the first time in ages, I drove to Will's house without incident.

Then, after five minutes (a remarkably short time for him - whoever said that it's girls that take forever to get ready is so wrong), he was ready to leave, and - pay attention - HE drove ME to The Sands Centre, Carlisle's only venue.

We met up with Joanne (who was in our school year) and a friend of hers, whose name I won't mention since you'll be totally confused, given that there are already four people who've been mentioned in this journal with that name. (Clue: it starts with 'H' and is five letters long.) Before the concert, Will hadn't been convinced I was worthy of his second ticket, since I didn't even own the album and probably wouldn't be anywhere near as excited as him. However, they assured me that I was not the only casual in the audience: H**** had only heard the three singles, and Joanne only one of them.

We got in the queue and spent a little while talking to Les, who was also in my year at school, and was getting in free for doing St John's ambulance service. Finally, the doors were opened, and everyone pushed as close to the stage as possible. I was now glad we'd arrived early as we had - as it was, we only got to the fifth row, but there were a heck of a lot of people behind us.

Before the main attraction, however, we had to endure The Horror Of The Support Act.

A ::shudder:: boy band!

Mel, how could you agree to this? If I'd known I'd have to endure such torture, I wouldn't have gone! As it was, I only found out reading The Cumberland News at Will's house, which informed me that they were a four-piece group. But when I arrived, there were six of them. Heech!

They were called Tom Cat, and had left their dress sense in whatever alley someone dragged them out of. Naturally, they included the usual components: the one with the silly haircut, the one with the really silly haircut, and the one with a haircut so tragic he had to wear a hat.

The term "boy band" was vaguely accurate, for once, given that there was a drummer and guitarist among them. However, this is not to say they were any good. This being my fourth experience of support acts of varying styles, I have worked out exactly how you get to be one: be completely monotonous. Your entire set is not to consist of more than one note, and no dynamics may be employed.

I'm not sure what was worse about this one: the fact that you couldn't hear what they were singing, since about four of them were doing so at once and drowned out by the instruments, or the fact that they couldn't sing. At all. A little listening to the charts makes it fairly obvious you don't have to be able to sing to be in a boy band, but these lot hadn't even mastered the nasal sneer favoured by N Sync. They just shouted.

Mercifully they only subjected us to six songs. One was called "Jump" (they instructed us to jump up and down, a pleasure that wore off within seconds) which made the Kris Kross song of the same title look positively good. Another was named "Crazy": ditto Britney Spears. And a third seemed to be a complaint about their girlfriend listening to the radio a lot. If they're an example of what's on it, I suppose they have a right to complain.

Because the scariest thing of all is that these people have a record deal. Their first single comes out in October and if it gets above number twenty in the charts, I will kill myself. After all, the only reason hordes of teenyboppers like boy bands is that they're, like, sooooo cutiez and sing dreemi songs to them! Having never seen the appeal of mashed potato head (Justin Timberlake) myself, it's within the realms of possibility that the little geens will find this lot attractive, but their songs can't possibly be stood by anyone with a double digit age.

Oh well, the proceedings improved greatly at 8.45 when Mel put in an appearance. Time to abandon my credibility once and for all.

To be there at all was Funchie. This was the woman who, four years ago, I had watched for week after week on "Top Of The Pops", telling us what she really really wanted. Now, here she was, three metres away from me, wearing a tank top with "I [heart] Carlisle" printed on it (among the 1700 present, that made one of her) singing the same song.

But on top of that, it was a really good performance. Will declared she sounded a lot better live than recorded and that this was as good as the four-Spice-Girl gig he attended last December.

And I've watched the Spice Girls auditions (I didn't want to, but Will brought a video of it to the common room one night after school and Smill was too transfixed to play pool with me) and not one of them could sing. But her voice was strong and clearly audible above the music.

I had to crawl out, since my legs had frozen after being squashed into one position for so long, but despite the inability to dance much, my hands were reduced to white lumps of bone due to clapping with my hands raised for so long. It was totally infectious.

Only not having any money prevented me from buying any merchandise afterwards (although since starting this entry, I have bought the album). Will, however, bought a t-shirt with "Melanie" printed on it. Hmm. Oh well, "Melanie" still isn't as bad a name as the surname belonging to his roommate-to-be. It's Leggitt (sp?), adaptable to a command ("Leg it!") and a way of referring to him if he's aevil ("Le Git").

Anyway, we got in the car, me singing "I Turn To You" very loudly. Then we had to try and get out of the car park.

This involved cutting into a slow-moving and unbroken stream of traffic. No one was letting us into it, but fair enough. We weren't in any hurry and if we waited long enough, we might get another glimpse of Mel.

The woman in the car behind wasn't having it, though. She honked her horn a few times, then attempted to squeeze past.

And bumped into Will's car.

"Right, that's it," he said, exhibiting an unprecedented amount of anger. He got out, memorised her number plate, and got back into the car again. Then he noticed a policeman, and said, "Right, I'm going to tell him. Move over." And with that, he got out and I had to shift to the driving seat.

Heech! Apart from the difficulty in reaching the pedals (Will is perhaps ten inches taller than me), I didn't want to be forced to drive off without him. However, after stalling the engine once, I managed to get back into a parking space.

Well, the woman got pulled over, breathalysed and arrested. Bwahaha! However, she was none too happy with Will, and a little girl accompanying her screeched, "She never touched your car! Liar!" (Wonder if she'd been drinking too?)

The car was all right, but Will went home, terribly afraid that they'd find him and beat him up.

Yes, Will is male, doubtful as the entirety of this entry may make that seem.

Monday 18 September 2000

I set off for university tomorrow and I suppose that before I make my final decision over which CDs to take with me (I've narrowed it down to a hundred and twenty nine, plus a load of realaudio files) and add the finishing touches to Plan Of Action: Survive In Company Of Parents For Twenty Eight Consecutive Hours, I should try and tie up all the loose threads introduced so far in my journal.

Let's do things alphabetically.

A is for AevilSteve has disappeared from the face of the globe. Good riddance! Actually, I'm slightly worried. He complained that after I left my job I'd find better things to do than write to him, but I've answered his e-mails conscientiously ever since. But to no response. Most odd.

B is for Birthday. Just so you know, my main present was a filing cabinet. Yes, I did ask for it, and it's excellent: I can throw all my bumph in there and forget all about it. Sadly, it can't come with me to Kent.

It's also for Balloons which I also received a lot of. (29, to be precise, for some obscure reason.)

C is Geen-Features (Chris) who I haven't seen since Nightmare In Penrith (except in my dreams as usual, blarg) and have barely heard from. But he does have an excuse: he's been in Germany. His communications with Helen remain mini-mal to the best of my knowledge, but I suspect change in the near future, since his university is quite near hers.

D is for Driving Licence which I finally have. (I know I passed the test ages ago, but I couldn't make my application for a tangible licence until I was able to spare my passport for a few weeks.) I'm not impressed. For a start, it's pink! Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I want something pink in my wallet for the next ten years! And it just looks so much less serious than the green provisional licence I received when I turned seventeen, which is now gone forever. Wah!

E is for Entries, which, I am well aware, I still owe you quite a lot of. The same could be said of E-mail. Well, you'll just have to wait until my laziness wears off a little. I'm thinking May 2003 (when I'll have my final exams, and will do anything to avoid studying).

F is for Fuel Crisis, which I have been following avidly of late. However, my addiction to watching the News has recently lessened slightly (I only do so for thirty minutes every three hours now), since the situation has improved. A fair few garages have petrol, so I can probably get to university. Yoj!

G is for Geens, namely Mum and Dad. Dad is trying to regain his youth: not only does he remain enthusiastic about The Band but he has started going to The Pub after rehearsals! Mum is teaching herself Italian and is now capable of sending e-mail without assistance, worse luck. It's also for Grandad who is now 92.

H, as well as a member of Steps about whom I recently watched a really warped program ("This video is directed by Granny Smith of 'apples' fame" flashed up on the screen), is for Helen. After spending several complete days rehashing Nightmare In Penrith with me by e-mail, she has been to America, and in spite of fuel problems, managed to start her first year studying Medicine at Sheffield University. I plan to visit her in December.

I is for Illness, since I've been ill lately, but feel better now.

J is for Japonica which, according to my dictionary, is a flowering shrub with red flowers and edible fruits. You learn something every day, don't you?

K is for Kent University which is where I'm about to go, in case you'd somehow missed that. (I'll probably refer to it as UKC (short for "University Of Kent At Canterbury" from now on.) I set off with my parents tomorrow at about 10am, we'll spend the night in a hotel in Oxford, and then travel to Canterbury (the town where Kent University is) on Wednesday morning. Keweliez!

L is for Laziness. I did some preliminary reading for my course a few weeks ago, but since then, I have not done another second. Laziness is my default behaviour, but I'm not convinced it's a terribly good thing right now.

M is for Marion has now left for Lincoln University to study Graphic Design. She wants me to visit her at some point during the next few months.

N is for Noj, who has had the dentist robbing him of teeth.

O is for Online, a state I have not been in much lately. However, that is likely to change in the near future. I'll have unlimited Internet access when I get to university, and hopefully when I get home too, since we're about to start using the rather dubious sounding but apparently good Red Hot Ant (rechristened "Red Hot Pants" by me) as a service provider shortly.

P is for Packing which I should do.

Q is for Quiz Shows which I have managed to unaddict myself from, fortunately (as I won't have a TV in Kent, wah!) I only watched one episode in the latest series of "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" and twice now I have steeled myself away from "The Weakest Link".

R is for Reading List, something I hope the rest of Kent's first years haven't taken too much notice of either.

S is for Sarah Yoj has moved to England. Good eh? She lives down in the south east (she said, disapprovingly), but since I'm going to university there, it leaves potential for future meetings.

It's also for Smill. When I informed her of Nightmare In Penrith, she started talking about how she'd have to rely on Max The Wonderhorse for transport, thanks to the fuel crisis. All is well.

Well, everything apart from the fact that she can now answer "2" to "number of people kissed" in the slut test. The victim was a male component of Operation: Blencathra. Meanwhile, I'm still only on 1. Mimph.

Oh, speaking of matters dodgy, my sources (i.e. Will, who isn't always the most reliable conveyor of information) tell me that Roe has a girlfriend! "Wooooo!" was my initial reaction. "But mimph, I'm jealous," was my second.

"Why, do you want a girlfriend?" Will asked.

"Yeah," I said, making him laugh. "Actually, no, I just want Roe."

He had such hysterics that the people working in New Look considered calling security.

Yep, that's the biggest scandal of all: Will shops at New Look! Ok, he was just accompanying Smill and myself, since the three of us met up in Carlisle today. Which brings us back to Smill: it was the first time I'd seen her since May and will be the final time until December, since in October, she starts her first year studying Engineering at Edinburgh University, which is rather too far from Kent for weekend visits. (Five hundred miles or so.)

However, we spent six blissful hours together, partaking in the other three 's's: Shopping, seeing Scary Movie (ok, why wasn't there a basement in it?) and S&M. Well, not quite the last, but when she said, "I want to go to Internaçionale" it certainly sounded like, "I want some S&M." Wishful thinking or complete deafness? Either way, we laughed a lot.

T is for Teeth, which feel somewhat manky. When the dentist told me I had to go to the hygienist, I thought they meant I was in for a lecture. But not only that, but they treated them like a dead fish and a dusty piano. (Gave them a scale and polish.) Mimph, they could have told me! Well, if I'd known, I probably wouldn't have gone, but, you know, the geens!

U is for Updations which I am planning to keep making while in Kent. However, it took me nine days to get myself connected to the Internet in Cambridge, so be patient.

V is for Verbal Voodoo. Firstly, Will has declared that we *have* to make the movie next summer. (Hopefully at the castle where I used to live.) Secondly, I recently found the first few pages of Part 5, written in April. I will finish it one day!

W is for Will, who has changed his mind about wanting to kill Chris. Smill was annoyed: she'd been looking forward to watching. Me too, actually, since I had visions of a Celebrity Death Match. Chris enters the arena wielding a cricket bat, Will staggers in, arms full of pants and singing "Stop" by The Spice Girls . . . anyway. In October, he begins his first year of studying Law at Durham University, and apparently Mr Leggitt, his roommate, isn't a complete git by any means.

X is for X Rated, The X Files and eXciting, since my journal isn't any of them.

Y is for Yojful which is how I feel. Because, a few days ago, I won two free tickets to see Shed 7, The Bluetones and Space in the Millennium Dome on 27th September!

Three bands I've liked for about four years! (Along with some other group who I've never heard of. Will says they're good, but I'm not sure I trust his taste.) Two of whom I've narrowly missed seeing in the past. (The Bluetones played in Carlisle, but I didn't know about it until it was too late, and Shed 7 played in Penrith while I was in Austria.) And I get to visit the Dome, something I've never done before, and probably wasn't going to get the chance to, since it's closing at the end of the year. And all for absolutely nothing! (Except the relatively cheap cost of transport: Canterbury is a lot closer to London than, say, Carlisle is.)

Of course, there are a few slight problems. How on earth am I going to get there? I know I've travelled thousands of miles on my own, but planes are a lot easier to deal with than a combination of buses, trains and tubes in unfamiliar cities.

Finding someone to go with in the course of a week might prove difficult too, for I have little faith in the preferred listening material of my generation in general. Most of my real life friends (the people I gravitate towards on the Internet tend to have above average taste) would be reluctant, even if they were be anywhere near London. Smill likes Shania Twain (urgh), Marion recently spent twenty two pounds on the Ronan Keating album and "Ibiza Summer Club Mania" or something (urgh!), Roe likes that growling misogynist rapper bloke (urrrrrgh!) and Will likes Destiny's Child (urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!) And, at Cambridge, except for two people, I found everyone either belonged to the dance camp or the cheese camp.

Still, I'm happy. My winnings were completely unexpected, too. On Wednesday evening, I logged onto the Internet to find an e-mail from the bloke who runs the Shed 7 mailing list I'm on, saying he had a hundred tickets to give away. Since it had only been a couple of hours since the e-mail had been sent, I thought I'd make an application, and whaddya know, congratulations, they'll be put in the post.

And Z, in traditional egotistical manner, is for our heroine Zed. How will she cope with her greatest challenges to date: living without a toaster and sharing a bathroom with seven other people? Find out in the next entry!

Thursday 21 September 2000

Until I arrived at UKC, I was fully intending to tell my mother where my journal was, so I wouldn't have to actually communicate with her during my stay at university.

However, having spent a mere day and a half here, I have decided against this idea. Instead, I will e-mail her my entries, only with all the sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll left out.

After all, she's hardly heard of any of the bands I like.

Yes, despite all my promises to get a life, the last few days, as with the rest of my life, have been almost entirely devoid of the first two commodities. A bloke did enter our corridor today, prompting a silent collective "Oh no, another geen from the Student Union", only to declare himself a "representative from another corridor", inquire if I was looking at his (admittedly rather silly) socks in a derogatory manner (I proved I wasn't by showing the psychedelic striped ones on my own feet) and ask if we had any reefer. But we didn't.

Now I've reassured / disappointed you that I'm not living among a gang of drug dealers, let's have the last few days in chronological order, shall we?

As soon as my parents and I were awake on Tuesday morning, we began loading my numerous possessions into the back of their rangerover. Even though I wasn't taking a bike this year, we had a lot more trouble fitting everything in than last time. Five metres down the road, one of the thousand and twenty three alarms sounded, warning us that the boot wasn't shut probably. However, the massive load still allowed Dad to drive fast enough to be photographed by a speed camera, for the first time in forty years of driving. Oops.

Our first stop was Asda, a supermarket, where I collected my coat (I had to have it dry cleaned, since during my stay with Twi, her boyfriend Jeff's cat had continually shed on it for two and a half weeks) and provisions were bought.

I am most unimpressed with the toothpaste I acquired. Since they only sell my usual brand, Tesco's Minty Gel, in, well, Tesco, and bog standard Colgate Minty Gel is seemingly no longer manufactured in this country, I thought, "Ah, it's been a while since I've used Crest, I'll get some of that."

But it's white! Totally white! As toothpaste colours go, bright blue would be welcome and light blue fair enough. Blue and white striped or blue and white and red striped I could have tolerated. Even pastel green wouldn't have come as too much as a shock, since Twi and Jeff's toothpaste was of that shade. But pure white looks totally unnatural. Oh well, if I maintain my dental hygiene properly, the surrealism should end in a month.

On with the journey. After a couple of service stations (I bought an Ant and Dec album for £2.99 at one of them, but I have yet to listen to it through fear of my neighbours coming round with pitchforks), we arrived in Oxford.

When I left it, my home county of Cumbria, for the first time in its existence, was really sunny. So sunny I took photographs to commemorate the occasion. But in Oxford, despite being three degrees closer to the equator than Cumbria, it was raining. Heavily.

But not heavily enough for my parents to stay in the hotel, or even let me do so. When there are three of you and only two umbrellas, and the two of you who care most about seeing the sights will be back in the town the following night, it would make sense to stay inside. Or, at the very least, explore in the car. But sense-creation has never been one of my parents' greatest talents (this is the other reason I don't want Mum reading this), so we spent an hour wandering around the town centre, getting drenched.

Eventually, we sought refuge in the cinema and watched "Snatch". That afternoon, my brother Noj and his friends had also tried to see it, but they couldn't get in, since they got ID'd and were only seventeen. Not that it was particularly worth seeing (apart from the Brad Pitt factor, which Noj and co probably wouldn't appreciate as much as I), but still: bwahahaha! Next day, after breakfast with a talkative couple from Wisconsin, we travelled on to Canterbury, luckily finding a petrol station bearing some fuel on the way there. (Since the fuel crisis is still in its final stages, such things can't be taken for granted.) We arrived at the university at 11.30 and set about unloading my possessions from the car. This took three hours.

Then came an introductory meeting, where no one could see who was talking due to the sun streaming in through the window behind the stage. Oh well, this is apparently the first year in a long time when it's been nice weather for moving-in day, so I should be grateful. After that, my parents agreed to leave me.

I discovered I have rightly been put in a corridor for geographical dyslexics. In the evening, three of us (Catherine, Matt and myself) went on a bar crawl, and we spent 80% of the night just trying to find the bars. The fact that there are signs all over the place and I was carrying a map of the campus didn't prevent us from getting completely lost at all.

We ended up discovering a load of things whose location we were curious about. "Oh, there's the English department" "The Computing Service!" But no doubt when we actually want these things, they'll vanish.

In the meantime, we wanted bars. We found our own college's all right - in fact, we went on to find it several times subsequently, whether we liked it or not. Actually, it ok: it's decorated in bright orange, purple and green, which is incredibly garish, but it's a refreshing change from the prison-like off-white bricks of our corridor and rooms. However, in the three hours before they closed, we only managed to locate two others (thus missing out on at least two more). The Venue (the imaginatively-named but award-winning night club) had sold out rapidly. I tried to get a ticket, but they wanted proof that I was a student, which I lacked: apparently my key card thingy and nervous expression weren't enough. And so we returned to our rooms at eleven pm.

Sad perhaps, but I was somewhat glad, since I had become incapable of walking. My three-inch-heeled boots were torturing my feet and the unprecendented amount of alcohol I'd consumed was making the walls sway.

I had a rather bizarre dream where all the air and excess ground was removed from UKC, making everything a lot closer together, and AevilSteve and I were working for the same company and he was going out with Catherine.

Needless to say, I woke up early and proceeded to make the rest of my corridor do likewise by my experiencing The Shower. Note the The (an eighties singer): between seven of us, we have one shower and one toilet, which has no basin, so you have to trek back to your room in order to wash your hands. How will we cope?

Catherine and I, who had to be at the Faculty of Humanities meeting by 9.15, had breakfast in the dining hall, something you're supposed to do since the cost comes into the price of the room. Sadly, the food on offer left much to be desired: the only things my fussy taste buds could handle were two black slices of toast and a rather sickly glass of orange juice (it's so much nicer with vodka in it). I foresee myself using my illegal toaster quite a lot in the near future.

The meeting was nothing to write home about, although I did meet my first other Film Studies student there. Afterwards, I set off in search of information about my courses and tutor. Apparently, this was posted on my department's noticeboard and at the back of the library. However, the former was bare, and the latter wouldn't tell me where "The Making Of Contemporary Europe" was to be held. I found my tutor's name in the department of English (?) but I ought to check that notice again - the room number I've got written down sounds a lot like a telephone number.

The next stage of the day was thoroughly thrilling though: I connected to the Internet! Since this took nine days last time I was at university (I was using the wrong cable in my room, and I always forgot to bring my complex password with me to the computing areas), one day was very impressive. I haven't got my own machine connected yet, but I can send e-mail and surf the net from the library. Sadly, its opening times aren't quite good enough for the likes of me: 9am - 10pm on weekdays and a horrendous noon to 7pm at weekends, but I should get details of my room connection soon.

The afternoon was given over to various registrations. I got my ID card, my NUS card and my student loan cheque, and registered with the medical service. Naturally I forgot something - namely, to pay my tuition fees. Oh well, maybe if I skip all my lectures it won't matter.

Then came three hours of sitting in the corridor with various neighbours. Although carpeted, this got a bit painful, but we were denied of a more comfortable environment. The kitchen is approximately big enough for one ant, the shower room and bath room likewise, the toilet even worse, and no one trusts the room with Containing The Things That Look Like A Sink And Shower But Aren't. And, despite thorough a search, we have yet to find a common room. Since Catherine is even more fond of table football than I am, a comprehensive hunt must be undertaken tomorrow.

Anyway, as well as considering decorating the corridor, clubbing together to buy an illegal fridge, and acquiring an illegal corridor pet, we decided to co-author a book on Things One Can Do In A Corridor. However, numerous as our ideas were, we couldn't test most of them out there and then. A lack of alcohol prevented drinking games, a lack of sports equipment prevented basketball and cricket, a lack of Internet connection prevented us from doing Spark tests and playing networked games, and a lack of board games prevented . . . well, playing board games. Nevertheless, we decided what the first three tips should be:

1) Draw self-portraits and stick them to your doors. (Catherine, Charlie [a girl] and I tried this out. The results were most amusing.)

2) Draw pictures of your corridor-mates, so they can stick them to their doors. (Matt and Mike tried this and the results were exceedingly amusing. Mike ended up completely blue and half-wearing a hat that looked like a flying saucer.)

3) Draw pictures of your corridor-mates without their consent and stick them to their doors. (We didn't try this, on the grounds that we'd hardly seen Laura [who only agreed to make a sign bearing her name] and D-Bloke [his name is foreign and begins with D], and they might get a bit offended, but it was incredibly tempting.)

Catherine, Mike and I proceeded to spend the evening in the college bar and The Venue. I'm in two minds about it. On one hand, you have to buy tickets and nobody danced, not even to "Stayin' Alive". On the other, it's only three pounds fifty to get in and there's no dress code. Speaking of which, note to self: do not wear three-inch heels in there. At least half of the floorspace consists of stairs.

Now, it's 1am and I'm going to bed.

Saturday 23 September 2000

What did I write at the end of the last entry?

"Note to self: do not wear three-inch heels in The Venue."

What did I do last night?

Wear three-inch heels to The Venue.

Well, it wasn't intentional, if that gives you fewer doubts about the intensity of my stupidity. I wasn't suffering in the name of fashion, or anything. I was just being thick.

Hang on, there's something wrong with that argument . . .

But I really shouldn't have done it. I traipsed over to the v. distant Darwin College bar in them (with Catherine, Charlie, Matt and Mike) and had to stand around for two hours since there was nowhere to sit. The only distractions from the agony were a few games of table football (I'm really out of practice) and the "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" slot machine (where I helped two blokes lose all their money by telling them Workington wasn't on the coast and Egremont was, when I've been to both towns before).

But afterwards, we returned to our corridor, mostly so we could show this girl we'd acquired the previous day's lovely artwork. And so, before setting out to the Keynes College bar, where I went on to meet a bloke selling Venue tickets (which had officially sold out), I had a perfect opportunity to change my footwear. But did I? No . . .

In contrast to the previous night, the place was absolutely packed. Five minutes before we arrived, Shaft (a well-liked dance act) finished their set, which annoyed the others. Alison Limerick (someone who had a string of minor hit singles in the early 90s, including one with Malcolm McLaren, and I'd never heard of) performed while I was there, but only for ten minutes, and I couldn't even see her.

At about half past midnight, we returned to our corridor to listen to cheesy music. Earlier on, I'd won "Who owns the cheesiest CD?" hands down (I have a Whigfield album - and a single), but naturally, they were the first CDs I *didn't* bring with me. So we had to make do with Take That, Five and Ant and Dec. My fears about the corridor's disapproval were unfounded - they liked them more than I did. It's my liking for Motorhead I should be worried about.

(Oh well, at least one person on campus shares my taste for metal. The bloke who served me in the campus shop remarked that he'd seen Alice Cooper, on noticing my t-shirt.)

And so we sat (in Charlie's room this time) talking until two thirty. What we talked about, I have no idea, but I think that's a good thing. Then we collapsed into our respective beds, knowing we'd have to get up in six hours, in order to get any breakfast. Four of us managed it, but Matt failed: we left a sign on his door saying, "Wake up, or else!"

Anyway, backtracking twenty four hours, one of the first things I did yesterday was attend at a poster sale, since our corridor desperately needs decoration. I returned with an enormous poster depicting the cover of "Beatles For Sale": it took half a packet of blu-tack to stick it up on the wall coated with what Catherine's father claims is anti-blu-tack paint.

However, most of the day was spent battling with my computer. While I was writing an e-mail to my parents, one arrived telling me that my connection was ready. So I made the fairly long trek to the computing service and picked up instructions on how to set it up.

After two hours, I hadn't made a connection, and I headed off to a talk about my course, brooding. However, in the middle of it, it suddenly occurred to me that I was using the wrong cable to plug the computer into the wall socket. So, afterwards, I dashed back to my room . . . only to find that the other cable wouldn't fit into the socket.

At this point, I headed back to the computing service for advice. I was informed that I should have a different socket. And so I spent several minutes tearing apart my room, looking for it. I eventually found it under the curtains, and connected.

I could now send and receive e-mail, but not surf the Internet. After trying everything I could think of (including performing strange ritualistic dances around the tower) I returned to the computing service.

"It says something in the booklet you got," the bloke said, flicking through it, but found nothing. Ha! And with that, they told me what to do and posted a message on the website informing everyone else that a similar action was necessary.

However, neither WS FTP, Cute FTP, FTP Voyager (downloaded solely in the hope of it functioning), MSN Messenger, ICQ, IRC or AOL Instant Messenger would function. By this time, I was really sick of going to the computing service, so I gave up. I hope they're not forbidden . . .

Sunday 24 September 2000

Yesterday the time came for me to sell my soul.

The societies fair.

I don't understand. My corridor went together, but got separated during the course of the event. When we arrived back and compared notes, everyone else was empty handed and had signed up for about three mailing lists. I, meanwhile, was on about a million, had paid to join two societies, and was carrying a bag filled with leaflets about ballroom dancing and a mug with Christian Focus slogans printed on it.

(Bloke: Would you be interested in joining Christian Focus?
Me: No.
Bloke: Have a free mug anyway.)

And at the time I thought I was being stingy. After all, I refused the advances of all the political groups (ok, except the Liberal Democrats, despite my lack of interest in joining them). But a couple of hours after the fair ended, I found my mailbox filled with bumph. Uh oh.

Let's see. What did I let myself in for?

The Adventure Gaming Society (only because I was bored of waiting for the others to appear). Ballroom Dancing (I have yet to meet a female who isn't doing it or a male that is). The Rock And Metal Society (who pounced on me rapidly, owing to the Alice Cooper t-shirt, not that I minded. Just as long as they don't turn out to be geology enthusiasts who merely think Slipknot flyers are a more enticing thing to hand out than textbooks.) The Tennis Society (just because they have a beginners' hour [disregard fact that I've played for several complete days for the last eight summers]). The Music Society (whose first meeting I'm going to have to miss, owing to my attending a concert). The Cult TV Society. The Live Music Society (disregard fact that I can't play anything). Children's Theatre. The Table Tennis Society (at Cambridge, the college society consisted of me and twenty lads. Those can't be bad statistics.) The Women's Society. (You notice how universities never have Men's Societies? Or Straight Societies, for that matter? I can understand the latter, since most people are straight, but it's not as if women are a minority group - I actually think they outnumber men here. Boo! Hiss!) Niteline The Organisation Which Must Not Be Named. The Radio Station. KRED, the university magazine (so called because the colleges are Keynes, Rutherford, Eliot and Darwin. I think "DREK" is a far better acronym, mind.) And, most interestingly, Milites deBec (I ended up with about seventeen adverts from them) who go round carrying swords and spend several months making chain mail.

Scarily enough, none of my million activities seem to clash, so I may be able to do them all. How I'm going to fit the writing of journal entries in between them all, I don't rightly know. Never mind lectures.

However, the meetings don't commence until later on today, so yesterday afternoon, I walked into Canterbury (it's about a mile away) with Catherine, Charlie, Matt, Mike and Leah (who's an English student, like Catherine) for shopping purposes.

I have an announcement to make:

I LOVE CANTERBURY!

It's only a small town, probably about the same size as Carlisle, the nearest city to where I live, but it has shops filled with utter yoj. I went into FOUR shops that sold the sort of clothes I like: jeans, leather jackets and trousers, boots and band shirts (I purchased a Sex Pistols one). Carlisle doesn't have a single one.

I want to live here when I'm older. Actually, come to think of it, I live here already. Cool!

The only thing that's slightly annoying is its bus service. After a drink and a highly sad mass-exchange of mobile phone numbers in a pub, we waited for a bus to the university. (Walking into town is fine, since it's down a hill. Walking back on a hot afternoon, however, is not fine.) About five went past, but none of them were heading for the destination we wanted. Eventually, we got in taxis, which was fine by me, since it was exactly the same cost as the rip-off bus-fare.

Oh yes, something incredibly weird happened. You remember how last year, at Cambridge, I was talking to this girl who turned out to be the best friend of my penpal Julia? No? Well, I was.

Today, as I was signing up for Children's Theatre, I noticed that the name above mine on the list was "Nicola B******".

I wrote to someone called Nicola B****** for a couple of years, in which we exchanged some immense letters. Given that she was in the same school year as me, she lives in the south east of the country like everyone else I've met, it's an uncommon name, the writing on the list resembled hers, and she was highly dramatic, I reckon it's the same person! I sent her an e-mail to find out. Watch this space.

Tuesday 26 September 2000

My corridor mates and I had been planning to go on a pub crawl on Saturday night, but having already spent Saturday afternoon wandering around Canterbury, we decided to buy beer, stay in and play drinking games instead.

(When I say "corridor mates" I mean Catherine, Charlie, Matt, Mike and myself. [To be alphabetical about it.] Laura remains elusive, as does D-Bloke, although we know slightly more about him now. His name is Dassius, or something, and he has a foreign friend called Cassius [good, eh?] who visits him regularly, is slightly more talkative, wants Catherine to draw a picture of him, and hates the colour pink. He even insists that Catherine's Pink Panther poster should be green.)

First we played skittles, using bottles and tennis balls. The person who knocked down the fewest bottles had to drink most. For my entire existence, I have come last in every competition that requires one to throw an object, so my suffering was greatest. Even when we decided to whack the tennis balls with Matt's hockey stick instead of throwing them, my success was limited.

In this event, we were joined by The Representative From Another Corridor, who was wearing a sarong since he was on his way to "The Beach Party". In the next game, Drink While You Think (think of famous people whose names start with certain letters of the alphabet, and drink while you're doing so), we were joined by a group of people who we'd never seen before, who we later christened The Thick Corridor. Well, they all got into university through clearing and hadn't heard of Anthony Eden (a British prime minister in case you didn't know) - or, more to the point, Alice Cooper!

After this frightening experience, we decided to go to The Beach Party too. Since I didn't have any beach-y clothing with me, I went as a school girl instead. However, as we were setting out, we encountered some blokes in dressing gowns who said it was pants, so we went to Keynes Bar instead, where we played Hangman and Table Football. [Note: Here, Bryn, who would later become my boyfriend, noticed me for the first time; I saw him there too, recognising him as one of the rock society committee.] Then we went back to our corridor, which we sat in. Again.

On Sunday morning, while in the middle of typing a spectacularly witty e-mail to my mother, my computer froze. I turned it off, but was unable to turn it on again, no matter how much screwing and unscrewing I did with the cables at the back.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!!!!!!

Does this sound at all familiar?

It's not fair! Why me? What did I do to deserve all this difficulty? Why does it hate me so? I know I insulted PCs for years on end, but that was before I got one and realised how wonderful they actually are! Surely it knows how much I adore it? And why must it always malfunction when I'm hundreds of miles away from the bloke that sold it to me and will fix it for me? Miiiiiiimph!

Fortunately, the day presented me with some diversions from the agony. At midday, there was a meeting for the dramatic society, which was fairly entertaining; afterwards, I attempted to go to sword-wielding, but had no idea what location was meant by "Keynes Field" so I went to something called Improv instead. After declaring our names, what colour pants we were wearing, and our favourite pasta sauces, we played games from "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" (if you've never seen it, no amount of verbal explanation will suffice), where I was a drug dealer (dealing Smarties) and got attacked by an imaginary cat (owned by someone I would next encounter by chance on the Internet, over a year later).

[It was also here that I first encountered Ibid, who would become one of my closest friends, although I didn't talk to her until Soppygit introduced us, some days later.]

Afterwards, while reading bumph to help me try and to figure out what to do with the computer, I learnt that there was a help desk in the library, so I went there for a vice. (All the signposts on campus have missing letters: they're obviously affecting me.) While I was waiting for assistance, some bloke also waiting started telling me of his troubles. Since all he wanted to do was log onto his a count for the first time, I spent ten minutes helping him do so.

When I returned to the queue, a girl was there, with the same difficulties, so I spent twenty minutes aiding her. (She kept mistyping her password when asked to enter it.) I thought this would a one-off encounter, but a week and a half later, I met her at breakfast and subsequently on hundreds of other occasions, for this was Soppygit, who would become another of my closest friends.

After that, I finally got served, only to be told that they couldn't help me at all.

Next I went to the Eliot College's Freshers' Banquet with The Corridor Mates, in the hope of meeting some new people. However, this didn't work at all - we stuck together, as did everyone else, and I left fairly quickly to attend the first meeting of the rock and metal society. Upon the sight of two long-haired blokes [Bryn and Nick] and a purple-haired girl, I was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling of "I have found my people". [And indeed I had, as will soon become clear.] We sat in a room for about an hour; then I went to Darwin College bar with the group of people I'd been talking to. When that closed, four of us - Janan Of The Purple Hair Who Has A Mother Who Doesn't Mind Her Phoning At Any Time Of Night, Vicky With The Mighty Yorkshire Accent, Sian The Quiet One and myself - went back to Vicky's room, and then the first two and myself went to Janan's. I got back to my own abode at 1am.

On Monday morning, I did boring bumph like getting my photo taken for my Sports Centre card, and collected my completely useless Venue card. At 1pm, Catherine and I braved a Step Aerobics class, which wasn't too bad, although the woman running it was a gorgon by nature - "Who's coming to the gym afterwards?" she enquired. Afterwards, I sat in my room reading "Classic Rock", then went to see my tutor. I asked her opinion on what to do with my computer, and all she could recommend was asking the computer service. They were no use either, other than suggesting that I tried using someone else's monitor, since the problem may well be the bent pin in my lead.

Then, the time had come for my first lecture.

The first thing that happened was that I ran into the 27-year-old woman I met on Open Day, for the first time since I got here. (She's a Film student, like me, but this was a Making Of Contemporary Europe lecture, which was one of the four optional units I'd chosen, out of a choice of about a hundred. V. weird.) The second thing that happened was, we had a lecture. And it was pretty good really, easy to follow and understand. Phew.

Afterwards, I went to the radio meeting, where the girl sitting beside me said she approved of my Cure shirt. We got talking, and I discovered that her name was Xye and we had loads in common, as far as musical taste goes. At the rock and metal society, all the females I spoke to were into the Manics and Radiohead, and all the males into Slipknot and Rage Against The Machine: bands I appreciate, but am not obsessed with. She, however, liked everything that I did, to much the same extent. Yoj!

In the evening, I spoke on the phone to Smill and Marion and watched half of "Ghostbusters". The following morning, I attended an hour-long talk in the library, which I thought was going to concern how to use the video machines in there, but turned out to be about how to surf the Internet. Really useful stuff. I mean, I've never used the Internet before! It's so incredible how you can just click on certain pieces of text and they takes you to a new document entirely!

In the afternoon, I returned to Canterbury with Catherine, Charlie, Leah and Steve (the last two being friends of Catherine), where I bought a couple of second hand books and some CDs. (Oops. I'm not earning money anymore, I've really got to stop that.) In the evening, I hung out with Xye for a while, and met her scary corridor mates. I thought my corridor was a bit mental, but the residents of hers enjoy turning her upsidedown and putting her in the bath fully-clothed. She now walks around carrying a bread knife for protection. After that, I went to Woody's Bar (no, it's not owned by the character in "Toy Story" - or my wordprocessor, for that matter) with Charlie, Catherine, Mike and Leah for the first time. At 9.30, I left, on my own, to go to The Venue, since there was a rock and indie night on, but after fifteen minutes of walking, I found myself back at Woody's. I asked Charlie for directions, then set off again, and arrived, after a fashion.

The music was a bit pants, so I spent most of the evening in the toilets, talking to Janan, Vicky, Sian and Rosie (who I'd never met before, but liked because she too highly approved of my Cure shirt). When The Venue shut at 2, we went back to my room, then Vicky's. It was 4am before I got to bed.

Wednesday 27 September 2000

I thought I had the foolproof method of getting rid of a spare ticket to see Shed 7, The Bluetones, Space and Animal House.

1) On day of arrival at university, tell corridor mates about it.

2) If corridor mates think it's really cool, but are all into pants music of dume, go to Rock and Metal Society meeting four days later and three days before the concert, meet people and tell them about it.

3) If people at Rock and Metal Society think it's really cool but would rather go to the Literature Society meeting (the first thirty people to pay to join get a free t-shirt after all), go to radio station meeting two days before concert, meet people and tell them about it.

4) If people at radio station meeting think it's really cool but have a wall climbing session to attend instead, go to rock and indie night at The Venue one day before concert, meet people and tell them about it. 5) If people at rock and indie night think it's really cool, but are working, have lectures first thing the next morning and have visiting mothers [that was Bryn], put up posters in all colleges the morning before the concert advertising ticket.

Yet still I had no one to go with.

Nevertheless, I checked some rail timetables on the Internet. There was a train leaving from Canterbury West station at 16.20 which would get me there on time. However, getting back was going to pose a problem. There was a train at 23.11, which would be too early since the gig finished at eleven, and one at 00.05, which - eep - would take five hours to get back to Canterbury and involve sitting on a platform in the middle of nowhere for a lengthy amount of time.

I decided not to go.

Yet those large colourful tickets pinned to my notice board tormented me. I wanted to see these bands. I had been looking forward to this for the last two weeks. The following day, I knew the Shed 7 mailing list would start churning with rave reviews of the event. As I listened to "The Power Of Love" by Frankie Goes To Hollywood, a wave of extreme misery washed over me, and I had to put on some Kiss to cheer me up.

(Why I was listening to Frankie Goes To Hollywood in the first place: I've joined the music department of campus radio station, and they need people to write reviews of all the new CDs they get sent. The new Frankie greatest hits album was one of those I was assigned.)

What could I spend the evening doing instead? There was the Literature society meeting, but much as I like reading and wanted a free t-shirt, I think the thing that counts as literature that I've ever read for pleasure is "The Bell Jar". ("Everyone I know owns 'The Bell Jar'! I'm such a cliché!" Janan, who possesses a copy worth a hundred and fifty pounds, protested.) There was the Music Society meeting, but I can no longer find any enthusiasm for playing the clarinet, especially not classical music. And, best of all, there was The Traffic Light Party. Wear red if you're taken, orange if you're unsure, and green if you're available. Never mind how demeaning the whole thing was, I didn't own anything green!

So, at 3.40pm, I thought, "Right, I'm going to the gig, whether I have to spend three and a half hours curled up in a corner of Ramsgate station or not. In fact, come to think of it, that's a very anarchic studenty thing to do. Come on, sensible side, don't let me change my mind. It'll be an adventure!"

Note to self: in future, leave adventures to the Famous Five. Not only do they always meet some smugglers and get them imprisoned for life, but they manage to travel hundreds of miles around the countryside without spending a haypenny. There's always some jolly farmer's wife to provide them with shelter for the night, not to mention giant slabs of fruit cake. But I don't seem capable of doing that. Maybe I just don't drink enough ginger beer.

First, I had forty minutes to get to Canterbury West station. Despite the fact that 1) I didn't know how to get there and 2) it was really windy, I decided against trusting the bus, and walked. I managed to exit the campus after a fashion and make it through a sea of secondary school kids waiting at a bus stop. Nevertheless, I arrived at the station five minutes before the train departed.

But . . .

"You don't want to go from here," the man selling me the tickets told me. "It's much quicker and cheaper to go from Canterbury East."

"I don't care, I just want to go," I said.

"But the train from Canterbury East doesn't leave until 16.50," he said. "It's only a twenty minute walk away - and that's at a leisurely stroll. It's not hard to find. Just get to the high street and then follow the signs."

Foolishly, I agreed.

The high street wasn't hard to locate, but I came across exactly one sign to Canterbury station, and then hadn't a clue where I was. I then asked at least five pedestrians for directions. They all told me something different, I sprinted into the station with about four minutes to spare, only to be faced by a massive queue.

The bloke selling me the ticket had some qualms about the fact that it would take me five hours to get back to Canterbury, but I told him it didn't matter, snatched the ticket (glad that it had only cost me £8) and dashed out onto the platform. The train was waiting on the other side, so I tore through the underpass, dropping change as I went (of course I lost the more valuable coins) and threw myself onto the train just seconds before it set off.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

I managed to calm down during the journey, despite my worries about having to change trains. I didn't, but I panic about everything. I then successfully navigated Victoria station, took the tube to Green Park, and then another to North Greenwich, which pleased me, since I'm usually not too adept when it comes to matters of public transport - I've only ever taken one tube on my own before. The only annoying thing was the machine at North Greenwich eating my return ticket.

However, I was grateful about the ease of getting to get to the Dome from there, and I arrived with loads of time before the bands began.

The concert was ok (although Dot Music disagreed). It was introduced by a really annoying woman who requested that we put our paws together and waggled our tails for The Animal House (cringe!) and thought it was amazingly cool that Shed 7 had had more top 40 hits than Oasis. Um, both bands have been releasing music since about 1994; Shed 7 are just capable of consistently writing good songs, while Oasis have to take massive gaps in their career in order to send the public into a state of frenzy when they bring out each album, so it and its first single go straight to number one, regardless of quality. Nothing special about that.

On the plus side, there was minimal messing around between the bands, and they showed music videos while we waited. Admittedly, they kept showing the same videos over and over again, interspersed by adverts for Radiohead, but it was a nice thought.

Animal House I'd never heard anything by and they played generic indie stuff. Most of The Bluetones' set came from their new album, which I haven't heard. I now want to get it, but I think they work better on CD than on stage. My favourite songs by them are their seven minute opuses (opi?); the normal four minute rock song (which they had to stick to, given the shortness of the set) doesn't suit them. Shed 7 were good, if profane (the concert was filmed to be shown on Japanese television, but I'm pretty sure 'fuk' isn't too offensive a Japanese word), but really weren't on for long enough. Space kept moaning that the audience liked Shed 7 better, but played all my favourite songs - "Neighbourhood", "The Female Of The Species", "Avenging Angels" and "You And Me Vs. The World", whose existence I'd completely forgotten about.

I think the biggest problem was that none of the acts are particularly iconic. Alice Cooper has been on the go for thirty years, despite numerous decapitations; Mel C is (probably the best) part of a phenomenally successful group; and having read The Stranglers' biography, I found it immensely cool to be five metres from one of the original punk bands, one that contained three men who'd been imprisoned, had played in three continents in one day, and had all sorts of other escapades.

But none of the bands present at this concert are exactly controversial. In fact, the only person whose name I knew was the singer of Shed 7, and only then from repeated readings of "The Rough Guide To Rock".

Oh well. I was glad to have seen them. The only trouble was, I now had to get back to Canterbury.

I thought things were going well. The concert finished at 10.30, so I was hoping I could catch the 23.11 train after all. I made it back to Green Park quickly and without difficulty. But I still had another tube to wait for.

I hadn't been to London since March, and I didn't think much of the new posters they'd lined the walls with. However, watching and listening to the people on the platform provided sufficient entertainment, specifically the guy with Tourette's Syndrome. He didn't seem to know any words except "f***ing" and "c***" and he used them repetitively, despite not having anyone to talk to. When the tube arrived, he gave it the finger.

However, I could understand how he felt. Because the tube was delayed by ten minutes, which meant I missed the 23.11.

The next train back to Canterbury, according to the bloke selling tickets, wasn't until 6.46. So I settled down on an uncomfortable chair, and prepared for a long wait. Having managed to wait in Newark airport for six hours, I didn't think seven and a half in Victoria station could be so bad.

But, by some miracle, the guy sitting next to me started talking to me. Miraculous, because this is Britain: you do not talk to strangers, unless you're chatting them up. (And it certainly wasn't that - people don't chat me up at the best of times, and this was not the best of times, by any stretch of the imagination.) After discussing Computer Science for a while, I revealed how long my wait was.

"The station closes at one," he said.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh! I couldn't wait outside the station for several hours. I therefore dashed over to the ticket desk and bought a ticket for Whitstable, a town I'd heard was near Canterbury, which left at 00.05.

The most annoying thing was, having now spent seventeen pounds on train tickets, no one checked them. I can now see how my former penpal Kelly, who lived in Kent, was always bragging that she never bought tickets.

The final stage of the journey to Whitstable was by bus. I watched a road sign to Canterbury flash by, and then waited several minutes before the bus reached a halt and I disembarked at the wet, deserted station. I then took out "The Fresher's Handbook" and set about calling the four numbers for taxis on the back.

Dialling the first one, I got a recorded message saying the service was not available. The second one was engaged. The third, however, said he'd break the habit of a lifetime and pick me up. The fare was twelve pounds; I gave him fifteen. Then, avoiding all the revellers spilling out of the Venue, I went to bed.

Saturday 30 September 2000

When I first showed my face on the morning of 28 September, my corridor mates burst into hysterics. Being rather sleepy, I couldn't see what was so funny, until they pointed out that all four of us were wearing UKC sweatshirts (three of them identical). I then went to the computer room for two hours, accidentally leaving my bedroom door wide open.

However, the day began to take a more normal course. I had my second and third lectures (which were fairly boring), played table tennis (which was also fairly boring), then hung around in Xye's room, waiting for her corridor mate to appear, since she was planning on going to The Venue for 80s night with us. At 10pm, after an hour had passed, she was still absent, so Xye phoned her, and she revealed she wasn't planning to go Venue-wards until 11, so Xye and I set off on our own.

The place had been open for an hour, but there were still only about ten people present. One of them, however, was Bryn, the president of the rock and metal society, who encouraged me to dance. This Was The Beginning Of A Beautiful Friendship. Or Something.

[Historical footnote: at the end of the night, I told him I was going to be president of the rock and metal society after he graduated. He didn't believe me.]

The night was really good music-wise too! The DJ played back-to-back Madness songs (Madness were my favourite group for about six years) and a medley of 80s TV theme tunes, and Bucks Fizz performed. Xye thought they were terrible, but I had a great time.

More On Bryn

Since aren't many entries between now and January, here is some more information about Bryn: He's studying Biology here for a third year, but he's got another year at university after this one, presuming I haven't given my friend Ibid permission to kill him by then. She and my other best friend, Soppygit, do not think too highly of him, alas.

He's a goth and a part-time transvestite. People have accused him of looking like The Crow, Dani Filth, Alice Cooper, a cross between members of Kiss, Weird Al, Otto from "The Simpsons" and probably every other famous person with long dark hair. He does not look anything like the photo on his student ID card.

He has introduced me to the joys of Slimelight (a nightclub in London), Kevin Smith, the university shared network and The Cardiacs. (Although I'm not sure the latter is entirely a good thing - I like them a lot, but now spend half my life chanting, "In fiiiiiiiiin-ding sommmmme-thing poiiiiiin-ti-er!" [The other half of the time, I have "Birdhouse In Your Soul", "Take A Look Around", "Buddy Holly" or, Mykos forbid, "I Touch Myself" stuck in my head. Speaking of which, every time they play the latter at 80s night, he adds actions, to Soppygit's horror.])

He says "flip" or "fudge" instead of "beep". He wears a v. heavy coat all the time, even when dancing. He owns a collection of weapons and armour, since he participates in historical re-enactments. He is as nostalgic about 80s television and BBC computers as I am. Due to extreme dyslexia, his spelling is rather hard to comprehend.

According to The Spark, Bryn is 69% of a bastard (more bastardly than 95% of the test takers) and bitchier than 96% of the test takers (ditto). You know how your life expectancy tends to be at least sixty years? He's going to die on 2 June 2001 (the last day of the academic year, as it happens). Nonetheless, he's going to father of thirty nine children. (I think the predicted death date might have something to do with the fact he claimed to have cancer and tuberculosis, though.)

According to the The Love Calculator (hey, it was Soppygit's idea!), we are 57% compatible. (He and Chris are 96% compatible. I'm worried, since they're likely to meet soon.) The Biorhythm Test says we're only 33.7% compatible. However, the BioRhythm Test is a geen. It has some pleasing results - me and Will are a mere 21%, and Smill and Roe are 76.19% - but me and Chris are 82.91% compatible. Blarg! Lovetest reached the conclusion "You'll see each other again." Gosh, I'm so thrilled! Also, it said, I am 53% compatible with him and he is 72% compatible with me. ???

Oh yes. His alter-ego is a green alcoholic alien called Nyrb The Geend, who only ever says, "Oh, God".

No wonder my Mum's not entirely sure she wants to meet him . . .