Tuesday afternoon was hugely uninteresting until Soppygit and Ibid appeared, the first in a state of extreme glee, due to doing comparatively well on a test she thought she'd failed, and losing the one thing that most people are more than happy to lose. I could have done with hearing slightly fewer "It was soooooo nice"s (all that red ink, mmmmm!) and less detail ("I got 3/5 for my introduction, but only 4/10 for the first paragraph"), though.

In the evening, I went round to Bryn's, and we changed into each other, to a large extent. We both wore New Rock boots. He wore my PVC dress and fishnet knee socks, a rather modest spiky by his standards (he desperately wants to own one that costs £190 [and that's a reduced price] and looks like it weighs ten pounds and as if it could impale people on its own accord) and black elbow-length gloves. I wore his PVC trousers (infinitely funchier than mine due to their many pointless zips), a black top of his, his coat, a vicious-looking spiky, and whiteface. The latter, to my surprise, looked v. good on me, and for once the permanent bags under my eyes were an asset to my face. Bryn also drew a hash sign on one of my cheeks, a pound sign on the other (upon my request - "Hash and money, what could be better?") and a strange symbol on my forehead. I just hope it didn't mean something totally silly like "I eat stereos" or "I am purple" or "Single and bi", although the latter would explain why so many unfamiliar people spoke to me that night.

We set out to the Venue, stopping at Soppygit's on the way there (since she wasn't going, but wanted to see our outfits). She was v. afraid, since Bryn was being more provocative than usual (wearing a skirt has this effect on him), and his comment of "Oh well, someday you'll know what it's like to feel the touch of a man" made her turn maroon and giggle for five complete minutes.

The Venue wasn't great. For a start, I was boiling to death, at least at first. The trousers were hot, I was later informed of the top's thermality, and as for the coat . . . Well, its extreme weight meant the springs in my shoes worked properly, but that was its only benefit. My face became hot, and my already-badly-behaved hair (in the spirit of being Bryn, I hadn't washed it since Saturday) started sticking to it, and the make-up died.

Furthermore, the music was definitely below standard. I didn't cheer up until they played "Richard III" by Supergrass at 11 (two hours after arriving), and for the next three hours, there was still far too much bumph. The last song was "There's No Other Way" by Blur, for heaven's sake! I mean, it's ok, but you can't finish on it. It's got to be Nirvana, or "Just" by Radiohead, or, if it must be Blur, "Song 2". But after someone dislocated their knee in the moshpit, they were unwilling to play anything too heavy.

And the spikys decided to commit suicide. One of Bryn's spikes fell off, and I lost two. Très bizarre.

I didn't get to bed until three, since Bryn The Geend hadn't written his CD reviews, which had to be handed in the next morning, and after that we talked for about an hour. We probably would have continued, but I was so exhausted that I couldn't part my lips, and conversations have a finite length when the only word you can manage is "Mmm".

The next day, I met my future-housemates at the bank, since we needed to set up an account from which to pay rent next year. Soppygit and Jo use Natwest, Ibid and I use Barclays, and somehow we decided on Natwest.

Bloke: Let's start with those of you privileged enough to have accounts with a decent bank.
Zed: Sigh.

Ibid: Your debit card's prettier than mine.
Zed: No, yours is much better!
Ibid: But yours has nice bright colours!
Zed: No! Yours is far more interesting. Hey, want to swop?
Bloke (to Soppygit and Jo): Are you sure you want to live with these people next year?

Bloke: Why did you decide to use Natwest? Why? Why?

Bloke: Do you want pictorial cheque books?
Soppygit: What's that?
Bloke: They have little pictures of animals and flowers.
(Ibid and Zed look at each other, thrilled.)
Ibid and Zed: YES!

Afterwards, Bryn and I went into Canterbury. Our main aims were 1) to get my glasses fixed (failed, Vision Express couldn't do it), 2) to get his credit card bill paid (done) and 3) to acquire tapes of "Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets" since his brother managed to buy him "Philosopher's Stone" (which he already had a slightly dodgy copy of) and "Prisoner Of Azkaban" (useless without "Chamber Of Secrets") (done). However, we also ended up with two Deadlands books, fudge, a card game called "Gother Than Thou", train tickets for our excursion on Saturday, toilet roll (his house has been devoid of it since Friday, and the campus shop only sells pink sandpaper), Classic biscuits (stale since 1968!) and cheese.

I think my bank balance just halved. I knew there was a good reason for staying away from Canterbury.

In the evening, I saw "East West" at the cinema with Soppygit and Ibid, which was all right, but too bleeping soppy. Then, after a brief voyage back to her place, Ibid came to my room to stay there for the night, since her corridor mates had gone to Garage Night at the Venue, and would no doubt come in inebriated at the small hours and keep her awake by playing nasty music.

I phoned Bryn, telling him I'd be round in ten minutes, and set off. Half way there, however, I realised I'd forgotten the biscuits, cheese and toilet roll. I continued a few paces, then thought, "No, I refuse to have to remember to take tissues into the bathroom any longer" and went back to my room. I thought about calling him, but assumed he'd be occupied one way or another and wouldn't notice if I took twice as long as specified.

Of course, this was the only occasion when he's ever kept his eye on the time.

That night, I had a nasty dream, but considering I watched "Evil Dead 2" beforehand, it could have been a lot worse. (I also tried to watch the second half of "The Italian Job" but fell asleep. This is starting to get annoying. If anyone asks me if I've seen a film, for all those I can say "Yes" to, there'll be just as many where I'll have to answer "Yes, but I fell asleep".)

Today, I only have two lectures instead of five. One lecturer's away, and the Geometry lectures have called theirs off, since there's a heauge "Grants Not Fees" protest thingy, which they support. I was planning to ask my Mathematical Methods teacher if hers was on or not, but she was in such a foul mood yesterday that she kicked five people out of her lecture, something she's threatened to do before, but never gone through with. You're supposed to miss your lectures whether you're allowed to or not, but I'll turn up. I fear her wrath.

Friday 2 March 2001

I have found my spiritual hairstyle.

Between my lectures yesterday, Bryn came round. He only meant to stay long enough to eat a yoghurt, since he had to perform Operation: Tidy Room before his landlady arrived at 6pm (never an easy task), but since it was snowing he ended up staying the whole two hours. We tried to play "Gother Than Thou", although you really need three people. How frustrating - don't they realise that part of being a goth is not having any friends? Certainly not goth ones. I believe there are eight goths at UKC (including myself, who would probably get a negative score at amigothornot, even if the people who rate the photos there weren't mostly pretentious geens), out of twelve thousand students, unless there's some being ubergoth by staying in their rooms all the time. Anyway, twas quite entertaining. It's simple, but requires strategy, and more to the point, it's funny. You give yourself and the other players cards, which leads to the sentences, "I'll have a big tin ankh" and "I'll make you absinthe minded". I'm not sure how you can have a disturbing southern accent (v. ungoth), a disturbing German accent (v. goth) and a voice like Morrissey (v. v. ungoth) at the same time, though.

After lecture #2, Soppygit and Ibid turned up. Soppygit left at eight; Bryn reappeared and spent half an hour looking at a map of Arbecey (the village in France where he used to live) on the Internet, and telling me and Ibid where every paving stone began and ended. Afterwards Ibid left; I dressed as Hooker!Zed (it's the vinyl coat that does it, when added to the ensemble of Cure shirt, faux-leather mini skirt, fishnet knee socks and New "They Didn't Exist In The 80s But My Feet Hurt" Rock boots); and he turned my hair into that of Robert Smith.

I was v. v. pleased with what I saw.

I have always suffered from the curse of my hair becoming distressingly messy. However, if my hair starts off as messy, it becomes less so as time passes. The wind got rid of some of its height, and as the night wore on, it started falling down onto my shoulders, but by the end I apparently looked like a Sister Of Mercy. Which is goth enough for me.

Sadly, I doubt anyone appreciated it, since 80s night seems to draw a higher proportion of trendies every time I go. Identical girls with the same hairstyles, same builds, same tight-but-often-unflattering tops and trousers. It's depressing and worse still, inappropriate. Weren't the 80s famous for the wackiness of people's outfits? Oh well, the girl who said she liked my boots on indie night told me again that she liked them, so that's something. Bryn got a bit annoyed since she kept nearly hitting him in the face, but she proved she possessed a degree of insanity by trying to get us to dance the "Macarena" to the "Locomotion".

The night was mostly favourable, music-wise. They played goth stuff for the first half hour (while Bryn, Ibid and myself were the only ones present), and we got all our requests played, except "Sex Dwarf" by Soft Cell (to be dedicated to me). The DJ laughed upon receiving it, and probably would have played it, except he didn't have enough time as there was a band on: a v. bad Duran Duran tribute band and a v. good Wham! tribute band called Wham! Duran.

The four Duran Duran songs they played were seriously poor. Bryn didn't recognise "Planet Earth" until the chorus, which was understandable, since the singer couldn't hold any of the long notes, and it took me a while to recognise "Rio", which didn't sound anything like the original. They were much better as Wham!, but while I really like Duran Duran, the only Wham! song I like is "Young Guns". After "Freedom", Bryn and I sat in a corner and Were Gothic until they left the stage.

There is only one thing that I miss about Cambridge University. Its pigeon hole system. At my college there, each student had a hole. While it got minorly embarrassing checking yours ten times a day since they were situated in the porters' lodge, at least the process was quick.

Here, you have to share a hole with all the residents of your college whose final initial matches yours. Which means that when you check your post, you have to sift through tons of envelopes for other people.

And some of the 'W's never check their mail! C Wal is the worst culprit; I don't think he or she's checked his or hers since the start of term, which was eight weeks ago!

Monday 5 March 2001

Shortly after writing my last entry, Bryn came round. The joys of my room soon wore thin (we've seen more or less everything of interest on the shared network), so Bryn and I set off for his house. Before I went, I left a note for Ibid, who I expected would come round at some point. The three of us were to go to a Shed 7 concert in London the following day, starting at 1pm since it was to be broadcast live on Japanese television. I told her to be at the station by 10.21.

Just before I arrived at Bryn's house, I thought (and said), "Oh, splerd, I should have put 9.21!" It was an understandable error: for a long time, I had thought it would be 10.21, then realised we had to be in London an hour earlier, as the doors opened at 12. I didn't fancy returning to my room and Ibid refuses to own a mobile phone, but I have never met anyone who checks their e-mail as often as she does, so I wrote to her.

The next day, we went to the station . . . but Ibid appeared not.

We arrived in London in good time, and drooled over boots and worried over the products in Ann Summers before entering London Astoria, the venue. The gig was ok: if I'd paid for it, I'd have been disappointed, but the tickets were free. Shed 7 played all their staples - "She Left Me On Friday", "Going For Gold", "Where Have You Been Tonight?", "Disco Down", "Dolphin", "On Standby", "Getting Better" and "Chasing Rainbows" plus some album tracks and new songs, which is all I could ask for . . . but the atmosphere was lacking. There'd been no support band, so the audience wasn't psyched up for the main attraction, and since it was the middle of the day, Shed 7 weren't really in the mood (read: drunk) either. And, as it wasn't a proper concert, once they had enough footage, they stopped playing, despite the audience's shouts for more.

Still. For the first time in my concert-going career, I was in the front row, so chances are, for the first time, I've been on TV!

As soon as I got my bag back after the gig, my phone started ringing. It was Chris, asking how to do quadratic equations.

Bryn and I spent a while in a sex shop (I am v. v. glad he accidentally left his wallet in my room, although there was a très rawkin PVC skirt there that I couldn't afford but he would have bought me) and, just for contrast, a Virgin Megastore. When I win the lottery, remind me to return there: the metal section is the size of the rock and pop section in any other record store. After that, Oxford Street held little appeal, and we didn't want to go to Camden due to mutual lack of cash. So, to the tube station we headed.

Bryn got on an escalator marked "Victoria Line Northbound". "You silly geen, we want to go southbound," I said, waiting at the top. "Come back!" He disappeared out of sight, and I waited. Since there was a broken escalator beside it, I assumed he'd walk up that, but no.

After ten minutes, I went down to the southbound platform to see if he was there. Nope. I watched the escalator, waiting for him to appear, but after discovering that a larger proportion of the population wear long brown coats than I'd previously realised, I went upstairs again. No yoj.

At this point, I would have called him, except for one problem: before the concert, he'd given me his mobile phone, so it didn't get damaged while moshing. (Moshing? Fat chance!) So I checked the northbound platform, and then the southbound again.

It eventually occurred to me to check to see if, by some strange chance, he did have his phone. I reached into my bag, found my phone . . . but that was it. Since my bag has a tendency of concealing the object I want most, I searched it thoroughly. But his phone was not to be found. He must have taken it off my hands when I tried to answer it when Chris called.

I dashed upstairs, because mobile phones don't work in the underground, where I'd been for forty five minutes. The moment I got into the section where it would function, it rang. Turned out Bryn had assumed I'd have followed him, and caught the first tube to Victoria station.

Grr.

Went to Victoria, caught the train to Sittingbourne, and was taken to Bryn's parents' house.

After dinner (which took some time), I got another phonecall from Chris (the quadratic equation formula was to aid Sarah Yoj with her Maths homework) which only ceased after twenty two minutes when Bryn began snoring provocatively. We then watched the two versions of the "From The Cradle To Enslave" video, and the first Babylon 5 film. Well, I saw the first five minutes, Bryn's favourite sequence, and a bit of the ending. The rest of the time I was asleep.

Night In Bryn's Double Bed was good, if a bit too hot, due to a radiator beside it. Until Bryn started singing, "Big bottom! Big bottom! Talk about mud flaps, my girl's got 'em!" (from "This Is Spinal Tap") the next morning. I retaliated with, "Big willy! Big willy! Has Bryn got one? Don't be silly!" I got kicked out of bed, but was able to climb back in the other side . . . only to be attacked by the burning radiator. Ow!

After lunch, we returned to Canterbury. It wasn't long before Soppygit and Ibid came round. The later wasn't too annoyed with me, since 1) I assured her it hadn't been a good concert to lose one's concert-going virginity to, 2) Friday had been the first time she hadn't checked her e-mail in the evening, assuming she wouldn't have any, and 3) she would be able to get some vouchers in return for her unused train ticket.

Then, after about an hour in their company, as if I hadn't seen enough of Bryn over the weekend, I returned to his house.

Tuesday 6 March 2001

As with all Mondays, nothing out of the ordinary happened, except I did my laundry for the first time in ages. Woohoo! I still haven't been able to face unpacking the three carrier bags of damp clothes, though. I sent a lot of e-mails to Bryn's brother. I got the evil assignment I did at the start of term back and scored 50/50, and got the evil assignment I did last week back and scored 48/50. I had some nasty classes - I couldn't finish all the work in them, and now have to do it in my own time - as well being assigned a scary-looking Sadistics project that I hadn't been bargaining on.

When I got to my room, Ibid was waiting outside, and Soppygit arrived minutes later. The first was in an uncharacteristically foul mood, due to too much work and not enough chocolate (she's trying to give it up for lent) and the second was none too happy either, due to too much work and lack of Mr Dover. I was somewhat glad to have received an e-mail from Bryn saying, "Come to me, my pale enchantress" and be able to leave them before much longer.

We listened to the second half of "Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets". The whole series is so full of dodgy bits. The line "He got out his wand" always bothers me, and there's a bit where Harry finds Ron and Hermione in a cubicle in the deserted toilets. I am also slightly worried by the fact that Bryn invented a book called "Harry Turd And The Chamber Pot Of Secrets" this morning and I was so pleased to come up with "Bogwarts" and "Loo Powder" (travel from toilet to toilet) that I forgot to tie my shoelaces.

I barely recognise my own computer. For the last few months, the words "I WANT SEX" have been emblazoned on the side of my tower, put there by Bryn. He also wrote "FUN C***" across the top of my monitor (but I changed this to "FUNKY") and "VAGINA" down the side of it. Since the latter was written with a permanent marker, I attempted to change it to "ANGINA", but failed, so Ibid scribbled it out and wrote "HI!" This lunchtime, Bryn suddenly realised that removing the nail polish from it might be wise in the light of my parents seeing it in three and a half weeks. After five minutes of scrubbing with acetone and cotton wool, it now merely says, "I VANT EX".

Not that he's gone mature or anything. He insists on leaving "HI BOYS!" and "TAKE ME NOW!" on my stereo and he threatened to send my mother a digital photo of my bed, marked with the words "I f***ed Bryn hear" (he's dyslexic).

However, this gave an opportunity to make countless dodgy comments. "You're rubbing my 'VAGINA'." "It's coming!" "It's getting all wet!"

Did my radio reviews and finished my work from Monday's classes, but have only managed to hang out one pillowcase and one sock to dry thus far. I think I'll work on my entry for the poetry competition instead. I could do with £200 . . .

Friday 9 March 2001

Yesterday was ok, except there were far too many fleeping lectures. Can't we have protests on Thursdays more often? Bryn came round twice, but I wasn't in on either occasion. Mimph.

In the evening, I was visited by the sisters of weirdness and Ibid and I went to see "Peeping Tom" at the cinema. Twas most excellent, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I leave university and am faced with a choice of Hollywood blockbuster, romantic comedy and "Pokemon 5742" whenever I want to see a film. I'll probably stay near Canterbury and continue to patronise Cinema 3.

Today, shortly before my single class, Bryn came round and removed my "VAGINA" altogether. He then returned to eradicating "I WANT SEX" from the tower. "Now you're making me lose my sex drive," I said.

Saturday 10 March 2001

As far as I'm concerned, Bryn is gorgeous, intelligent, understanding, fantastic in- no, we won't go there, generous (he claims to be evil, but he spent twenty minutes today undoing the knots in the chain of my ankh since I have no finger nails) and basically all I could want in a boyfriend. Yes, you're entitled to say "Awwwwww" but just this once.

However. Certain facts prevent me from getting too mushy. For example, right now, he is wearing the same pair of socks he's worn for the last six days. Urgh. Normally, I wouldn't notice, but they're red and have Christmas trees on them.

Yesterday evening, I went to an open lecture entitled "What Is News? Entertainment In A Cynical Age" with Soppygit and Ibid. Yes, this was through choice and it was ok. After Ibid had dinner, we went to Keynes Bar, for a rock soc pub crawl. Soppygit didn't come because she hated the last one, due to a lack of eyecandy. Of course, who should we meet in the first pub we entered? Mr Dover!

Today, I went back to campus and a miracle occurred. For the first time since arriving at UKC, I managed to open one of the carrier bags in the campus shop without the cashier's assistance!

Sunday 11 March 2001

I went to Bryn's Lord's housewarming party last night. Everyone got a bit confused when I told them this - "His landlord?" - then remembered that he's a squire. I'm not sure the housewarming worked terribly well, since my arms were v. cold by the early hours of the morning. It was fairly enjoyable, though. About half the night was spent playing / watching Playstation games: well amusing were Tekken Ball (Tekken characters playing beach volleyball) and the wrestling game where you get to throw televisions at your opponent and put them in rather compromising-looking positions. (I would be more specific, but this journal is dodgy enough already.)

People often mistake Ibid and me for sisters. I don't really understand it. We're both short and have similarly shaped gold-rimmed glasses, and I suppose our hair colour isn't that different right now, but that's where the similarity ends. We have very different complexions and facial shapes.

That night, however, someone asked Bryn who I was. "My girlfriend," he said. "Really?" was the answer, "I thought you were brother and sister."

That's a first. We both have long slightly-black unruly hair and blue eyes, but that's it. Heech, I'm turning into him!

Since the party was in Ramsgate, a town about twenty miles away, I'd travelled there with a few people from Canterbury by car. We stayed there for the night, had breakfast in a greasy spoon type place, and went back. I got dropped off on campus and made my way back to my room. On the way, I met Ibid, ill from eating too much ice cream. However, her situation was nought compared to Soppygit's, of which I was told: she and Mr Dover have split up. Alas!

Tuesday 13 March 2001

"I was telling my tutor about the problems I was having with my course, when he said, 'Have you got a hamster?'"

A suggested reason for the hamster question was, "Lecturers have so much knowledge that they go insane." I'd be inclined to disagree, though. The one teaching us about (useless) applications of calculus always checks with the class that she's differentiated sinx and cosx correctly. As for those trying to teach us about computing . . . when one of them was demonstrating Excel, he did something silly and the program returned a weird output. "That's one of the best things about Excel," he told us, "you never know what it's going to do next."

Thursday 15 March 2001

Argh, I hate exams. I'm not scared of them, like everyone else I know, they're just bloomin' annoying. All seven of mine are within a space of ten days, Ibid's start as soon as next term begins, and Soppygit and Bryn have them right at the end of term. Bryn and I both have one on the afternoon of 18th May, which means we'll be in a rush to get to see Alice Cooper. And Bryn has one on Saturday 26th May (exams on Saturday? Blarg, it's inhumane!) which means we have to miss Ozzfest. (If I went on my own, I'd be dumped.) Mimph!

The video of the Shed 7 gig is available! Trouble is, it costs £10 and is available for a limited time and I am broke. And I don't really want to watch it: the only concert videos I really enjoy are those with theatrics (Iron Maiden, Alice Cooper) or eye-candy (The Cure, Manic Street Preachers with-Nicky-Wire-in-a-dress) and I know for a fact that this video would lack both. I just want to know if I'm in it. I would ask Bryn to buy it, but he's already had his five seconds of fame: apparently, if you watch Placebo's "Every Me, Every You" video, you can see a lunatic headbanging. That's him!

Friday 16 March 2001

Last night, I called Bryn to let him know I was going round. I forgot to tell him to unlock the door, so I expected it to be locked when I arrived. But before I could even touch the handle, the door was opened for me. "Aaagh!" said I, to be greeted by a grinning Bryn. Apparently he'd waited there since I'd made the phonecall - which would be about fifteen minutes, since I'd gone to the toilet and sweet machines afterwards. But the expression on my face was worth every second of it, he said.

We watched "Central Station" (which he didn't like. The geen! He has no taste! Although I did like it better the first time round, at the cinema.) Then he decided that I had to sleep on the floor. I complied, asking how long I had to stay there, and he said half an hour. About twenty minutes later, I had how much longer I had to remain, and he said, "However long I feel like."

I wasn't standing for that. I got up, and started to dress. When he saw I was serious, he said I could sleep in the bed after all. I demanded conditions (a reasonable amount of duvet and mattress) which he agreed to, but I wouldn't cuddle him. This compelled him to turn upsidedown, so I had to deal with his feet, but this position lost its appeal for him first. I remained annoyed, until I realised he was enjoying my annoyance.

Grr! I can't win! Everyone either suggests I hit him, but he's bigger than me and is trained in hitting people, or leave him, but I'm too attached. Mimph. Why must my first relationship be with someone officially more bastardly than 95% of the world?

I went to a really well-attended Geometry class today. I believe there's over twenty people who do Geometry, but only six turned up, including myself. I'm not entirely surprised, since the lecturer believes we're five years old and teaches us at approximately three lines of a formula per hour. Oh well, there won't be much to revise at exam time.

Shortly afterwards, Soppygit came round and we talked for two and a half hours, since we've barely seen each other this week, as she's been bogged down with work. Then I went into Canterbury to hand an evil form to the estate agent's and buy cheese and toilet roll.

In 1979, Madness wrote the lyric, "Even if I keep on running, I'll never get to Orange Street." Today, merely by performing my usual trick of walking down the wrong road when trying to get back from Canterbury's town centre to university, I not only learned that Canterbury had an Orange Street, but found myself in it. They'll be so jealous. (Of course they read this journal. Hey, one of my favourite authors does, why shouldn't my favourite band?)

I spent most of the evening in the company of Ibid and Soppygit. Twas gute, except I had to put up with a loud and tuneless rendition of "There were ten in the bed".)

***

Oh, how I regret the fateful day of the Societies Fair! While I waited for my corridor mates to emerge from the throng of fresh-faced, er, freshers, why did I make the minutes pass more quickly by signing up for the mailing lists of every society I had even a miniscule smidgen of interest in? My time would have been so much better spent at the rock society table, staring lustfully at the gorgeous hunk behind it. (Mmmmmmmm, Niiiiiiiiiiiick!!!)

For now I am paying dearly for my folly. No matter how loudly I scream, "I don't want your stupid bumph!" down my computer, it continues to fill my inbox.

The worst offenders at first appeared to be the Adventure Gaming Society. I quickly decided already I'd spent enough of my life rolling dice to attack monsters, and became quickly frustrated by their continual references to "GM". I know now, due to going out with a part-time geek, that it's short for Games Master, but then I wondered what genetic modification had to do with snotlings and space marines. However, being nerdy sort of people, they knew knew to add, "If you change your mind about being on this list, send a blank e-mail to this address" at the bottom of their messages, which I did.

The other societies, however, are not so kind. There's some I like to hear from: the rock society ones are always fascinating, the radio ones are often of some use, the film and cult TV and live music society ones would be interesting if I had a memory that lasted more than five . . . what was I saying? But some societies are more annoying than a garage remix of a Britney Spears song.

First, there's The Organisation That Must Not Be Named. I sent them an e-mail a while ago saying, "I can't do this anymore, because when given a choice between my boyfriend's bed and yours, the former always wins. After all, I don't have to change the sheets with his." However, they continue to hassle me. The main problem is they always seem to be having elections as they keep coming up with new positions. (They should get in touch with Cosmo.) This means, that if someone wants to nominate him or herself for one, they send an e-mail to the entire mailing list. V. annoying.

Then there's the women's society. Looking back, I have no idea why I went anywhere near their table. I have no interest in my gender, and as long as I have enough rights to get by, I'm happy. The only one I'd like to fight for is the right to not be inundated with annoying e-mails. The only vaguely interesting message I've had listed forthcoming events, one of which was "Female Genital Mutilation". I would hope it meant "a talk about this", but I couldn't be entirely sure.

And worst of all, there's the drama society. Up until recently, they wrote regularly, but unobtrusively. However! They've recently changed secretary. He uses snazzy fonts and thinks he's funny! Wince!

Oh well, at least the societies at Cambridge stopped sending me stuff a while ago.

Friday 23 March 2001

I climbed onto the high, rotating chair in the middle of the room. The door closed behind me, and I was plunged into blackness. For a number of seconds there was total silence; then, I heard the sound of people shuffling towards me.

The sounds of movement ceased, and the voices began. Slow, grave, enunciated sentences, coming from all directions. Some describing natural phenomena, some concerning abstract matters, some telling stories. Usually, three voices spoke at once; sometimes more than that, sometimes just one. I shut my eyes and let the sound wash over me. The words from different sources blended together into sense. This continued for a few minutes.

Then they wanted to know my name.

I told them, and they asked what form I took. They asked me to define "a person" and what materials I was made from. "Bones, blood, skin," I answered.

I agreed that these rotted and that this worried me. They offered me eternal life and I accepted it. They asked me where I would go, how I would protect myself, how I would communicate, how I would deal with my enemies.

Every now and again, a strange question would be thrown in, such as "Have you been to a funeral?" or "Where are you from?" When I answered the latter with, "The North", the response was, "The north, you escaped from being buried beneath the frozen wastelands . . ."

"It's not that bad," I said.

I defined my new form: an impenetrable, indestructible armoured sphere, full of liquid, that could communicate with others telepathically. My enemies, those who sought the eternal knowledge I held, but I deemed unworthy of it, would be forced to turn on each other.

The questions gradually stopped and the texture of voices became thicker and a light came on. I saw the bodies to which the voices belonged lying on the floor around me. Then the light dimmed again, and the shuffling returned.

Once there was silence, I cautiously disembarked from the high chair. Presently, the door behind me opened, and I left, and sent Bryn in.

This was Azathoth, a new project of his friend Mark (the guy responsible for the aforementioned "Cemetery"), based on the work of H. P. Lovecraft. It was really quite creepy. [They would take a new version of it to The Edinburgh Festival in 2002.] I felt sorry for the actors, having to go through the same routine for everyone who entered, but they got to vary it a bit, depending on the victim's responses. Bryn, for example, became a winged humanoid. I felt more sorry for the three people who arrived after us: the process lasted about fifteen minutes.

On Tuesday I went to indie night, which was good. Afterwards, I didn't get to sleep until four, due to Bryn reciting modified nursery rhymes (perversery rhymes?), Christmas carols and Cradle Of Filth lyrics. We got up at eleven thirty, and it soon became obvious that in order to get to my lecture in time, I would have to forego either eating or getting changed. Since I was so hungry I could barely walk, food was consumed, and I went to my lecture in a short faux-leather mini-skirt and fishnet knee socks.

I was planning to wear my PVC dress for my last day of lectures, but I think I shocked my class enough with that ensemble. There were a load of prospective students and their parents around too.

In the afternoon, I went into Canterbury with Bryn, as he had to do some financial bumph. We saw "Enemy At The Gates" at the cinema, which was good, then went to the aforementioned theatrical thing. When we got back to Bryn's house, we watched "Evil Dead 2" again, which I fell asleep in. After all that, I expected to have a dream set in pitch darkness in second world war Russia featuring a decapitated head, but instead I dreamed my stripy tights had turned into stockings, and I was a professional ice skater.

On Thursday, I went to 80s night at The Venue. It wasn't a great night, but this morning, since I couldn't be bothered to get changed, I attended a lecture in my PVC dress.

Friday 30 March 2001

I am going home. I write this while lying on my front on a relatively comfortable bed in a hotel room in Thaxted, a small town south of Cambridge. Tomorrow I will return to Brampton, and instead of having a policy of "If I go to London, I might mention it", I'll subject you to manifest parochial snippets like, "I heard my local vicar talking on national radio today." Which I did - he was being interviewed about the consequences of foot and mouth disease and giving his opinions.

Going back to last Friday. The first few hours of The Pit were v. good: they played a lot of goth and industrial music and I talked to people I don't see too often. When it was over, Ibid and I hung around, since Bryn, as president of the rock society, had to clear up. "I'll help," she told him.

"I would help," I said, "but I'm feeling a bit funny. I sometimes feel drunk when those around me have been drinking."

"A couple of people were smoking hash," Bryn said. "You could be high."

"Off second-hand smoke?" I said. "Nah. I've been around people smoking it before, and it's never done anything for me."

The idea of someone putting hash in the smoke machine crossed my mind, although I knew full well it wouldn't do anything, but when Ibid said, "Perhaps someone put hash in the smoke machine", I found it hysterically funny. I could just picture someone opening the smoke machine and putting a lump of hash inside. "Yes, you are stoned," Ibid said, looking at me holding my sides.

I got a lift back to Bryn's from his friend Anthony. We sat in the living room until about 2, before going to bed.

The alarm went off at 7.30.

If you go to university, do not even think about going out with the president of the rock society, if you have one. No matter how attractive he or she may be, having to get up early after the day of events means it's just not worth it. (Don't worry, I won't dump Bryn until October, which is when the next Pit is.)

We set off back to Keynes College, but clearly the effects of the hash were still evident: Zed: Can't we use the teleporter to get there?
Bryn: I wish I had one.
Zed: You do. It's just in the basement.
Bryn: I don't have a basement.
Zed: Yes, you do, you just can't get to it. Every house has a teleporter to Keynes in their basement, even if the house is in Outer Mongolia.

We took the equipment out of the junior common room and tried to order a taxi. But at that hour of the morning, a lot of companies weren't answering the phone or sending out any taxis for a while, and one refused to take the stuff, saying it was a removal job. It was about an hour before we finally got one.

Bryn and I returned to my room to sleep, but I had to get up when Helen phoned. We spoke for a record breaking two hours and eighteen minutes. Afterwards, I got back into bed, and stayed there till Bryn had to go for a riding lesson. (He wants to learn how to fight while on horseback. At 6'1" he was one of the smaller people who went along and had to ride a pony. He was bigger than it was.)

The remainder of the week held little in the way of thrills (except the sort I'd best not go into). On Sunday I did my final assessment. I also discovered that printers have turned against me. Mine suddenly ceased to work and the university ones refused to operate.

On Monday, I finally discovered what my options were as far as "boring Maths modules I can take next year" went. Don't get me wrong, I've really enjoyed all my modules this term, but next year's have titles as vague as "Analysis" and as fascinating-sounding as "Linear Programming / Operational Research I". It's a bit disheartening that after studying nothing but Mathematics for six months, you can't even understand the names of your next modules. I had to choose six out of eight, so I disposed of the two most boring sounding ones: "Several Variable Calculus" and "Mathematical Modelling" (I don't think I'm thin enough to parade the latest equations down the catwalk). My tutor approved of my reasoning.

Speaking of the Maths Institute (which I was, as his office is there), since I first went there on Wednesday 11 October 2000, I've thought, "Mimph, this is a long way from Eliot College. I wish there was a quicker route."

On Monday 19 March, eleven days before the end of term, I saw some people leaving the Maths department in a strange direction, bearing in mind their destination. I followed them and lo and behold, what did I see? A short cut! Mimph!

On Tuesday, Ibid and I saw "Quills" at the cinema. We enjoyed it v. much. Bryn had wanted to accompany us, but had too much work to do. Watching the film, however, proved his absence was A Very Good Thing. It would have given him far too many ideas.

On Wednesday afternoon, he and I went into Canterbury. I bought the 28 Days album, which I wasn't prepared to go home without, but I came across "Simon The Sorceror" and "Simon The Sorceror II" for only £15. Unfortunately, to have spent that much would have meant not eating until Friday night, so my stomach got its wicked way.

On Thursday, Ibid and I were hoping for an evening of lunapathy in my room. Unfortunately, Soggypit (no, that's a really bad spoonerism) had an essay to finish, so Ibid, Bryn and I ended up doing our own thing for most of the night. The most entertaining part of the evening was quoting "Labyrinth". (Or "La Brynth" as he prefers to call it.)

Zed: You remind me of the babe.
Bryn: What babe?
Zed: The babe with the power.
Bryn: What power?
Zed: The power of voodoo.
Bryn: Who do?
Zed: You do.
Bryn: Do what?
Zed: Remind me of the babe!
Bryn: What babe?
Zed (giggling): The babe with the power.
Bryn: What power?

This carried on until I lost the ability to speak and Ibid was on the verge of murdering us. When she left (without her coat), Bryn and I remained. We always stay at his house, but my parents were supposed to be picking me up at around midday today. (Slightly annoyingly, since there's a free techno / drum and bass party this evening that I'm missing. Yes, despite my long-proclaimed superior taste in music, I'm quite partial to techno. It's house and garage and bathroom and pantry and evil geens successfully rereleasing "Uptown Girl" and destroying "A Whiter Shade Of Pale" that I object to.) Therefore, it made more sense to stay at mine. So we listened to bizarre and rude sound files on my computer, then went to bed. We were just getting comfortable (which is no easy feat in my hard narrow bed in my icy room) when the fire alarm went off.

We stood outside the college for the necessary fifteen minutes, unable to go anywhere as it was 12.40 and all the other buildings were shut. Eventually we were let back in and returned to bed. I was happily asleep when the sound of nah-naaaair-nah-naaaair-nah-naaaair filled the air. This time, it was 2.40.

Now I understand why students go out on the last night of term.

Fortunately, Bryn had the sense to bring his coat outside with him on this occasion. Since it contained his house keys, I insisted that we went to his place. His phone, which serves as an alarm clock, was stuck in my room, but I reminded him that I woke up at eight every morning anyway. (It's very annoying: it means I always fall asleep at midnight, regardless of how exciting whatever film I'm watching is.)

Unfortunately, although I did wake at eight and didn't fall asleep again, I found myself in a state of v. comfortable rest, and when I asked Bryn the time (my watch was in my burning room) he said, "Oops."

Saturday 31 March 2001

Hotel owner: "Sorry about that; I just got tied up with the milkman."

I went to bed after finishing the last journal entry, since I had a massive headache. It was a good thing I hadn't been able to attend the techno / drum'n'bass party.

The next day, after breakfast, we went to Thaxted. There was very little there except a lot of narrow streets o' houses and a church with a huge spire. Cue puns about how in-spire-ing it was and how we hoped it wouldn't ex-spire. Then we set off for this other town near Cambridge, so Dad could go to a shop that sells pianos. He is terrible in this respect. Whatever settlement we visit, he finds a shop selling musical instruments to spy on. (For this reason, I am so sick of music shops I have to bodily force Bryn not to enter those of Canterbury when we go there.) And this time Dad planned the entire route home so he could investigate this place.

When he got there, however, it was closed. This caused a great deal of relief on my part and Mum's part (she is just as sick of this practice as I am), and amusement on Dad's. "A piano shop not open on Saturdays? When do they expect anyone to buy pianos then?" He also noticed that the pianos within were unrestored and a sign saying, "We can restore pianos to your specifications". Ok, what does the general public know about piano restoration? Do they even know pianos can be restored? What if they got asked for a piano that looked like Marilyn Manson? Or a piano you could drive? Or a piano that could play "Toccata And Fugue" by itself?

The rest of the journey wasn't too boring, due to the weird talk-y radio stations my parents like, and being able to chart our progress on a road map and simultaneously spot weird place names. My favourite discovery was a village named "Crackpot", a word my mother uses to mean lunapath.

I managed to perform The Great Unpack in its entirety when I arrived home. (If the modem cable hadn't been at the very bottom of The Huge Unliftable Box, which was the last thing I tackled, I would never have managed it.) The main problem was shelving. When I left home in September, my CDs required two and a bit shelves, which meant I was having to stack a few books on the floor. Now, they demanded three and a bit shelves. Oops. The fact that I'd acquired several videos and several books while away didn't help matters, either. I asked Dad for more shelves, but although he allegedly enjoys putting up shelves more than anything else in the world, he refused, telling me to put my Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley books in the attic. So, I regretfully removed two and a half shelves of them and managed the operation. It's a good thing I have so many books and magazines I haven't read yet, which are piled on the chest of drawers.

Bryn, who was having similar problems at his end of the country, and I have agreed that if we ever move in together our entire house will be given over to shelving. There will be shelves coming out of the doors! There will be shelves behind shelves! There will be cupboards with shelves both outside and in! Where I'm going to put my vast collection of posters, I have no idea. Perhaps on the outside of the house, if we don't need that for more shelves.