Soppygit has a crush on someone.

Please appreciate how diabolical this situation is.

In a number of regards, she and I are alike. We both have difficulty getting on with work and wearing contact lenses. We both enjoy dancing. And we share an appreciation of red telephone boxes.

However, in some ways we are very different, and the ways in which we deal with crushes are entirely unlike. I have always been terribly ashamed of mine, and have kept quiet about them at all costs. Did any of you long-term readers know I harboured feelings for Chris until the fateful 22 May 1999 entry? Nosiree, and despite the fact they had existed since at least February 1997, everyone at school had been equally in the dark. Nor had anyone suspected my liking for Horrible Crush #1, and I kept my thoughts of Just A Little Crush as hushed as possible. Of course, if said objet d’affection appears to find me rather delectable too, as is currently the case, I’ll occasionally allow myself to speak of him in favourable terms now and again, but rarely have I been known to voice my feelings in the company of anyone but him.

When Soppygit fancies someone, however, she is capable of putting his name into every sentence and has no qualms about doing so. Actually, that’s not quite true at the moment, on the grounds that she doesn’t know what his name is, but he’ll still get mentioned over and over again, no matter how much Ibid and I protest.

For as long as I’ve known her Soppygit has been obsessed with one bloke or another. The first time I spoke to her properly, she said there was an actor, Eric Stoltz, who she appreciated. The second time I spoke to her, her sentences were along the lines of "Eric! Eric!"

Then there was A Bloke In One Of Her Lectures. Her behaviour around him was somewhat distressing for a while, but she quickly learned that he had a girlfriend. Her heart remained intact, however, for her attentions had turned to another. In the short time before anything happened, her enthusiasm was bearable. Her grief after things went wrong, however, was not.

Until Mr Dover made an appearance in her life. The time between then and before they became a couple was mercifully brief, for her passion ran sky-high. She calmed down a bit during the relationship, and she dealt with the break-up well . . . but now there is someone else, and it is worse than ever.

On the grounds that she didn’t have much in common with Mr Dover, and he was a bit young for her liking, she decided to go for someone who looks like a postgrad, and definitely shares two of her interests: eating dinner in Rutherford Dining Hall and going to the campus shop.

That’s all we know. She longs for a chance to talk to him, but apart from being far too nervous and usually embarrassed, due to being accompanied by three people who not only look like lunatics but act like them too (well, we *are* lunatics!), she can’t think of anything to say except, "I’ve noticed you around. I find you very attractive. Will you go to bed with me?"

Ibid has seen the back of his head once. So have I, on another occasion. However, we are unconvinced by his existence. Ibid believes he is merely a figment of Soppygit’s imagination, and the power of her belief is so strong that we’ve been able to see him too. My theory is that he only has a back of the head and no front (in the same way that Tim’s only has one side) and we never see him for very long as he is eager to hide his face, or lack thereof.

Soppygit insists that we are wrong, however. So, since none of us know a thing about him, Ibid and I have come up with his life story, in the hope of putting her off him.

Tis here.

It really doesn’t seem to be working, though. Yesterday evening, before we went to Rutherford Dining Hall, Soppygit declared that she thought herself capable of not thinking about him any more this term, while she had exams. Then, as we left, the conversation she and Bryn were having about Terry Pratchett books suddenly began to consist entirely of "and"s. She had caught a glimpse of Him, entering the dining hall. Until we parted company fifteen minutes later, she repeatedly declared how tempted she was to return there.

Aaagh.

Wednesday 2 May 2001

On Thursday 26th, I went to 80s night at The Venue with the usual suspects. We weren't terribly impressed. It was the ninth one I'd been to, and since there's not much chance of what counts as beloved 80s music changing any time soon, the playlist was much the same as those on previous occasions, and the variations were bumphier than the staple tracks. I don't believe they played "Centerfold" and Jaki Graham (exactly, who?) was performing. We listened to her first song out of politeness, then spent the rest of her set in the toilets. We weren't the only ones.

On Friday, I went to the on-campus theatre for the first time since getting to UKC avec Ibid, Bryn and his friend Anna, and saw "Faustus". It was a bit hard for me to follow, for I have never been particularly skilled at interpreting Olde Englishe, but good and somewhat creepy tout de meme.

On Saturday, since it had been a long time, and it was one of those rare weekends where Bryn neither had to fight or practice fighting, the two of us went to Slimelight. We wanted to go to Camden first, but the train took half an hour longer than usual, so by the time we arrived, there was about as much point as people award Belgium get in the Eurovision Song Contest.

Instead we went to the yellow area on a British Monopoly board and spent a while hanging out in Tower Records (where, for the first time in my life, I came across a copy of "The Great Rock And Roll Swindle", so I bought it) and The Trocadero, this heauge dark arcade-y place, where we played air hockey.

The middle part of the evening was spent wandering back and forth, trying to find the nearest tube station and working out what was on at the cinema. This wasn't particularly pleasant for me, since my dress was falling apart, and the edge of the zip was chafing against my thighs in a very nasty manner. However, we encountered a bloke asking for directions, who insisted on taking a picture of us. For Bryn, this is a regular occurrence, but it was the first time it had happened to me, so I was well chuffed, even though he'll have a terrible photo.

We killed the later part of the evening by seeing "The Hole" at the cinema. We went because it was the only film Bryn felt like seeing, and although I had no idea what it was about, it yielded plenty of opportunities for naff jokes. I could claim, "I've seen Hole" and get the reply, "Courtney Love and co? You jammy geen!" Or, if it was really bad, I could declare, "The Hole sucked itself." Or, if more than one cinema was showing it, I could say to Bryn, "Make sure you get the right Hole."

Anyway. I was well impressed! It's the best film I've seen at a mainstream cinema in a long time. I enjoyed the Hole thing . . . sorry.

Then we kept our heads down as we got on the tube filled with pub-leavers, and went to Slimelight. It was, well, Slimelight, which is a synonym for good. It started on a positive note - well, a positive series of notes: Bryn had expressed a hope that they placed "Burn" and it was the first complete song we heard. The next few tracks, rather than standing out, compelled one to stand out, but the night quickly got going, and the room quickly became packed with people who made me feel underdressed. Although some of them were positively undressed. I swear they get more outlandish every time they go there.

The one problem I have with Slimelight is that it doesn't cater for people who didn't start wearing high-heeled and platformed shoes until the age of nineteen and who have normal sleeping habits, an unwillingness to use stimulants of any legality (coffee, like shampoo, smells lovely but tastes foul) and an intolerance to cold. I would sit down to rest my aching feet, feel sleepy, drift into half-slumber, and be woken up a few minutes later by a stranger asking if I was ok. It was nice to know that people care, but I'd find myself totally freezing and have no choice but to get up and dance again.

Anyway. Since it was my fourth visit, I decided to become a member. (It costs less to get in, and you can sign in other non-members.) I had been hoping Linux Kid, who signs my guestbook, would turn up and reveal himself, since you need two members to turn you into one, but there was no sign of him. (Well, it hardly surprising, since I didn't know what he looked like and he probably wouldn't have recognised me either.) However, Bryn picked up a form for me to fill in. The moment he did, some bloke handed me a pen, and silently agreed to recommend me. Coolness! Bryn and I both think we saw him at the Alice Cooper concert a few weeks later.

So, I have a Slimelight membership card. It is gother than . . . goth itself. Not only is it black with embossed silver letters saying "Slimelight" and spider pictures on it, but every time you take it out of your wallet or put it back in, the silver wears off. Self-destruction! Disintegration! And if you're a proper poser, you'll show it off a lot, and it'll disintegrate faster! GOTH!!!

I slept on the train back to Canterbury, got a taxi to Bryn's house and slept for three hours. Then we went to a "Father Ted" marathon at the cinema with Ibid. We probably wouldn't have bothered, except we'd bought tickets in advance. It was a struggle to remain upright, but highly enyojable nevertheless.

On Tuesday morning, one of the Eliot College receptionists must have been very drunk. All the bits of paper telling people that they had parcels were pinned to the notice board at 30 degrees.

On Tuesday evening, Ibid, Bryn and my not-particularly-good self went to The Venue for indie night. The first few hours were q. good, music-wise, but between 11.30 and 12.30, which is when the night generally gets going, Ibid and I resigned ourselves to the toilets in disgust. Nevertheless, we had quite a lot of fun in there. Anna The Goth joined us in deth for a while, and I learnt that she is so goth that she's actually allergic to bright daylight! A random girl talked to me about New Rock boots and we complained about how many people owned them. Frances, who I met in the first few days at university, but I hadn't really spoken to since, asked where I'd got my lacy black top from and we chatted for a while, and some girl started talking to us about hair behaving badly. Then, at 12.30, the music got brilliant, and remained that way until the end of the night. (With the exceptions of "Buck Rogers" and "Teenage Dirtbag", which annoy me to deth.) The general consensus was that it was rather good, as indie nights go.

Thursday 3 May 2001

Shortly after this term started, I discovered that Hazel O'Connor was to perform at the campus theatre on May 3. I was in two minds over whether I should stay or I should go. On the positive side, I really like her stuff and I really like going to concerts anyway. On the negative side, the tour was called "Beyond The Breaking Glass" ("Breaking Glass" being the film she starred in and wrote the songs for, so I expected it to be her later less-popular works), the subtitle of the tour was "Back To Her Celtic Roots" (oh no!), the flier promised an acoustic accompaniment (how would that work with post-punk songs with saxophones in them?) and I just thought the whole thing might be a bit depressing, since she'd have aged twenty years since her heyday. (For similar reasons, I decided against seeing Soft Cell.) Also, the tickets were £8. And I like going to events with other people, but I consider her an acquired taste at the best of times, so I didn't want to force any of The Others to come with me. But in the end, I paid up, and I was pleased to see that I was one of the few teenagers in the crowd. The rest of the audience was over forty.

Hazel appeared on stage, in a somewhat silly-looking outfit - a dress over trousers - along with a harp player and a percussionist. The first song was v. Irish sounding, and I thought, aaagh! But before it was over, I was completely captivated, and remained that way for the rest of the performance. Basically, she told and acted out her life story - the harpist and percussionist had parts in it - and she incorporated her songs appropriately. And they sounded good, despite the different style. And the silly trousers were worn for a reason. (During the "Breaking Glass" première, she loosened her trousers, but at the end, she was forced to stand up and take a bow, and they fell down.) Above all, her tale was moving (being ripped off by record companies, having a miscarriage as she was forced to tour while pregnant to make more money, being forced to move across the world unwillingly due to a doctor's error), interesting (she supported Iggy Pop, David Bowie asked her to cut his hair, and Duran Duran were her backing band before they got famous) and funny (when filming "Breaking Glass", two hundred punks were brought in to be extras. They were given a few drinks, and then told to "act punkish". They destroyed the set in fifteen seconds).

At the end, she taught us a song to sing along to, and then asked if we wanted to change songs. Naturally, everyone shouted for "Will You?" Then, she offered to sign autographs, even if we didn't buy the album she was selling.

Somehow, I ended up nearly at the back of the queue (weirdly enough, "Get to the back of the queue!" is one of her lyrics), and she talked to everyone in it. Finally, however, my turn came. I would have bought the album, but my wallet contained nothing but Boots gift vouchers. She didn't mind, and signed a piece of paper for me instead. We talked for a while too.

Monday 7 May 2001

I am sitting at a computer where nearly all the keys have been switched around. The numbers are in reverse order, and the alphabet keys are all over the place. It's a very good thing I can touch type.

Someone must have been very very bored.

Tuesday 8 May 2001

Bryn spent last weekend away, fighting. I didn't mind too much, because I had plans of my own. My online friend Sofie from Belgium was going to be in London, so I was going there, to show her Camden et Slimelight.

The journey was totally unremarkable, apart from me being overcome by a hysterical laughing fit, brought a little boy spilling loads of sweets and his Dad singing, "It's raining sweets! Hallelujah! It's raining sweets!" It's nice to know that the weird sisters aren't the only ones willing to display their lunacy in public, and that there are still parents out there who aren't angry all the time.

I met Sofie in Borders Books on Oxford Street without difficulty. (She said she had blue hair, so it wasn't too hard to recognise her.) Then we wandered around central London for a bit, talking.

Then we caught the tube to Camden. Me being me, we instantly got totally lost, and ended up at Chalk Farm tube station, so we caught the tunr back to Camden and this time went the right way. We managed to find Black Rose and Cyberdog (which I lost last time), although we ended up trapped by a furniture store at one point.

Sofie found a très blique vinyl skirt, which she bought. I also found one, in the style I'd been looking for, but it wasn't as flare-y as I'd hoped, so I resisted. Methinks, on the whole, the trip was a success, given that when Sofie was asked the question "Happiest memory?" in a livejournal survey, she answered, "Going to Camden. Goth heaven!"

We went back to the centre, Sofie had a pizza, and we wandered round a bit more. At this point, I discovered that I have reached the level of gothicness where strangers approach me in the streets of London and ask favours (but not sexual ones). There was the bloke who wanted to take a picture on the last trip to London, but that was no doubt mostly due to Bryn, with his long hair, whiteface, bondage trousers and trench coat.

Outside Pizza Express, however, I was definitely approached in my own right, by a woman who asked where I'd got my boots from and how much they cost. Since there are more New Rock boots in the world than there are feet (or so there feel - Bryn and the girl in The Venue have stopped wearing theirs because no one can tell they got them before they became fashionable), I was very pleased to be the chosen one.

And then, a few minutes later, a woman asked Sofie and I if she could photograph us, since she was doing a project about London people. Had she paid any attention to the fact that we were wandering round the pretty touristy part of Westminster and, more to the point, our accents, she might have deduced that Sofie doesn't even live in England and I come from even further way, but we didn't protest. I'm just sorry I'm so unphotogenic, although at least I was laughing, thinking about "It's Raining Sweets" as I looked at the lens.

Of course, my aim now is to become so gothic that people are too scared to approach me.

Anyway. We headed for Angel (where Slimelight is), and sat in a coffee shop and a pub for several hours, talking about slash, the universe and everything. (Because for us, slash is life, and I mean homoerotic fanfiction, not the guitarist from Guns N Roses.) Slash included discussing the mechanics of gay sex rather loudly. We wondered what the people around us must have thought.

Everything encompassed how useless we both were at caring for plants.

When eleven began to approach, we headed for Slimelight, then spent a while trying to work out how to get to the cloakroom. Usually, I've been able to go there straight away, but the main staircase to the upper floor was blocked off by tape. We managed to find another staircase, but were shooed away from it. Eventually, at 11.30, the tape was removed, so we deposited our stuff. (While waiting, I encountered Anna The Goth and her boyfriend Darren.) Then we investigated The New Goth Floor.

Yes, Slimelight is one of those bizarre nightclubs whose floors move about now and again. (This is possible since it's located in a huge building mostly used for playing paintball.) And this was the first week it was open.

I wasn't impressed, and neither were Anna, Darren and Linux Kid (who was there, but I somehow failed to meet). The old goth floor was a room, with boxes and sofas round the outside for sitting on. This one ran into the bar / chill out area, so it had no definite boundaries. You found yourself moving gradually backwards as you danced, and there were all these leafy things hanging from the ceiling. They looked quite pretty, but they kept whapping me in the face, and even in my boots, I'm a foot and a half shorter than the average Slimelighter. (Due to boots and hair.) I don't think the sound quality was as good for this reason either, and they played less stuff I knew.

Also, there were some toilets which I'd never been in before, which I privately christened (if you’ll excuse the pun) The Vampire Toilets, since there was no mirror. There were two cubicles (never enough, considering the amount of uses Slimelighters put them to), one of which had no lock on the door and a suspiciously sticky floor; and the other one quickly got filled with all the toilet paper there. Despite being very thirsty, I drank nothing to avoid having to go more than necessary.

But Sofie seemed to enyoj herself. We danced for four hours, then my feet forced me to sit down. Of course, as soon as I did, they started playing stuff I like, including "Hymn" by Ultravox. I know that in order to maintain my gothicness I should object to music so commercial, but it's nice to hear something I recognise, and a favourite song from my childhood at that. But how could I end my occupation of a much sought-after place on A Comfy Sofa - a place beside Sofie at that - so soon after gaining it? So I put my head on my knee and instantly fell asleep.

I can fall asleep within a minute in a nightclub in an uncomfortable position with thumping music playing, but it takes me an hour in my bed. I think this says something about how comfortable it is . . .

I woke up an hour later. The question was, once again, should I stay or should I go? My feet had presumably healed by now (I tried to type "heeled" there, then realised that I had always had heeled feet), but wouldn't it be more beneficial to sleep some more now, rather than falling asleep on the train and going past Canterbury?

(I have figured out the worst way in which you could dump a goth from Canterbury. Go to Slimelight with them, and on the way home, get onto the wrong half of the train. Then, let them fall asleep, and move to the right half of the train, and leave them to wake up in Dumpton Park.) (Yes, there is a town called this. The same part of my brain that sympathises with the attendees of Penistone High School, to which my parents' shop sends stuff, has made me vow never to live there.)

The answer came, groaning in ecstasy (oh for the days when Zed had a clean mind!) when "Disposable Teens" started playing and I ran, stumbling over people's legs to get to the dancefloor. Oui, je suis très ungothique, but not only is it the song most frequently and most frustratingly stuck in my head, but my electro-loving phase is drawing to an close (proven by the fact that I couldn't really be bothered with "Planet Earth" or "True Faith", which were played at the end of the night) and I prefer metal again. I sat down immediately afterwards, though. I danced to "One World, One Sky" and the song after that, but otherwise slept and rested until 6.20, before dancing until the end.

Not the best night, as far as I was concerned, but Sofie seemed to have enyojed herself. Immediately after we parted company, she wrote "goddamn Slimelight ate my f***ing brain!" in her livejournal which really is a good thing, since she had images of Metallica in goth garb stuck in her head. Ooh yeah.

And having heard about all my trips, Ibid remains determined to go to Slimelight. Although she used to hate Covenant, she likes Ultravox, Einsplurdy Neubaten (*checks Yahoo's artist listing*: ok, Einstürzende Neubauten) and Rammstein, and she only wants to people-watch anyway.

Anyway, I managed to get the train back to Canterbury all right. I dozed at first, but a really loud and annoying family got on the train at Gillingham, and despite disembarking before I did, I was awake enough not to snooze again.

When I arrived in Canterbury, I became rather annoyed. Forking out for a taxi did not appeal, but dragging myself up the hill to campus didn't either. So I decided to get the bus. When I arrived at the bus station, it was 10.43, and a notice promised that a bus to university would leave at 10.45. Excellent, thought I, in a Mr Burns-esque manner. But when the bus pulled up, the driver informed me that he wasn't going until eleven. And in the event, it didn't leave until 11.15. I was groggy and cold. Grr.

Today, I had a lecture, in which the lecturer pronounced "pears" as "peers". (Don't ask why pears feature in Maths lectures in the first place . . .)

Since my exams start in a week's time, there are seven in the space of ten days, and I'm rather ill and I have a feeling all the gunk coming out of my nose is my brain cells, I probably shouldn't be writing journal entries. But I now understand what Ibid means when she says my notes look like they're in Korean.

Wednesday 9 May 2001

Last night, Bryn and I were lying in bed, listening to audio cassettes of "Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire", when he seized the covers off me. "Oi!" I said. "Give them back!"

"Not if you're going to make terrible puns," he said.

"What? What puns?"

"I said 'turn', meaning 'turn the tape over' and you turned over."

I had no recollection of either him speaking or changing position. "Oh, sorry," I said. "I didn't even hear you. I must have been asleep."

Even when I'm not awake I have a terrible sense of humour. How tragic.

Thursday 10 May 2001

Today, just as I was starting to get totally fed up with revision, Bryn came round, in a similar state, so we went into Canterbury, where we shopped and went to the park. I've never been to the park before. Tis v. pretty, although I don't know why kids play football there, though, bearing in mind the river runs through it, without barrier.

Twas a slightly surreal experience though, since Bryn decided to show me some Bad Goth Poetry he wrote at around the time his ex dumped him. What are you supposed to say? It's one thing to call your own poetry Bad Goth (as he did), but quite another to accuse someone else's of being this. The fact that it was written in scrawled capital letters, so the word "FREEDOM" looked like "ERECTION" didn't help matters. At least it wasn't in the context of "LOSING MY".

Ten years ago, at opposite ends of the country, two children watched the final episode of a TV series called “Goggle Eyes”. Little did they know that a decade later, they would be standing side by side, talking to the woman who wrote the book it was based on, at a book-signing.

Not only did I manage to get her autograph, but I somehow mentioned that I write. She asked me if I belonged to a group, and I said, "Well, I know a lot of writers on the Internet." "Have you published on the Internet?" she asked, and I said, "Yes, I've got a website." She asked me to write down the URL.

Heech! That's the second famous children's author who knows where my website is!

Friday 11 May 2001

Last night, Bryn, Soppygit, Ibid and myself went to see "Blade Runner" at the campus cinema. Today, it is probably the hottest day UKC has experienced this year. Outside, dozens of students are sprawled on the grass which is usually too muddy to walk over (presumably lucky geens who have finished their exams) and people wander the corridors and dining halls barefoot. Typically, it is also the day when my bottom drawer has become totally devoid of socks and underwear. So, laundry had to be done, and I am forced to swelter in my PVC trousers while my jeans are soaked. Oh well. Hopefully the heat will mean they dry fast.

Today, I sent Bryn a text message saying, "I prefer dementors to revision." That compelled me to write "How I feel About Revision And Exams In Terms Of The Harry Potter Universe":

1. I would very much like the ability to transfigure myself into something with no hands so as to not be able to take the exams.

2. If I saw a boggart, it would look like an exam paper.

3. I would rather go on a date with a dementor (what would a goodnight kiss involve?) than revise.

4. Azkaban is preferable to the examination hall.

5. If Snape was setting my exam papers, they would be easier.

6. I find Dudley Dursley more attractive than the prospect of revision.

7. I would eat a hundred earwax flavoured every flavour beans and a meal cooked by Hagrid if it got me out of doing exams. (Well, I might be too sick to attend.)

8. I would much rather face getting past a Hungarian Horntail and asking Cho Chang to the Yule Ball than my exams.

9. If I thought yelling "Accio answers!" would do any good, I'd do it.

10. A charm to banish exams could work quite nicely too.

11. I believe that exams should be referred to as They That Must Not Be Named, such is the level of terror their very mention causes.

12. Even Hermione, in my situation, would be scared. (Bryn calls me Hermione, from time to time, but you can't have Hermione going out with Sirius.)

13. I know how Neville feels.

14. I feel like I've got a lightning shaped scar on my forehead and I've just eaten Voldemort.

15. Professor Trelawney would foresee a very grim future for me.

I tried to get up to twenty, but was beginning to get stuck. Fortunately, Bryn saved me from the prospect of continuing with Geometry by texting back saying, "Come round and watch Mallrats then."

Despite the fact that we've watched "Mallrats" not once, but twice, before (in actual fact, it was the first film we watched together) and a third viewing would be completely unproductive, I jumped at the chance. So we watched it. Then his friend Joe came round, and we went to Keynes Bar for the start of the final rock society pub crawl of the year.

I hadn't really wanted to go, since neither Soppygit nor Ibid would be there. So when Soppygit found me, I suggested she and I left and found Ibid, who would be leaving the cinema shortly. So we did that, and proceeded to hang around together for the rest of the evening.

For a long time, Soppygit has been saying, "Let's invade Tyler Court" since it houses postgrads, and she is into older men in a big way. However, Ibid and I have always groaned at this suggestion, for I have a boyfriend, Ibid isn't looking for anyone, and even if we were searching, we don't really think that would be the best way to go about it.

However, we were bored, so we decided to investigate it. However, the doors were locked. Soppygit is still determined to get in there though. We have visions of her using grappling hooks to get in through the windows.

Saturday 12 May 2001

Argh! My poor financial situation has caused untold damage to my gothicness!

It was another beautiful day. More beautiful than the previous one, in fact. The sun blazed through my PVC trousers (my jeans still weren't dry) and the sky was a perfect cloudless cerulean.

Ibid, Soppygit, Jo and myself went into Canterbury to sign our housing contract. On the way there, it occurred to me that I should be wearing sun block, since I burn very easily (albeit hardly ever in British weather). I was debating whether to spend the afternoon outside and decided that I would put some on if the proposition won.

The contract was signed and I went to buy a few things. The essential purchases were Dairylea Cheese (which is becoming harder and harder to find - they've never sold it in the campus shop, and now they don't even sell it in Netto's, The Horrendously Grotty But Exceedingly Cheap Supermarket) and toilet roll for Bryn's house (he and his housemates always forget to stock up on it).

Then I decided to treat myself to a pair of lacy elbow-length gloves, since I've been wanting some for ages. But when I found them, they looked uncomfortable and itchy, so I sought alternative retail therapy. This was found quickly, in the form of two pairs of stripy tights (I hardly ever get to wear the pair I already own, but I like them muchly ["I'll wear one pair" - Bryn]), another arm spiky ["You'd be vicious in a moshpit" - Bryn] and a "Parental Advisory" badge, which I stuck to my t-shirt. [Bryn could only manage a coughing fit when I showed him it, but coughing and laughing are interchangeable activities for us invalids.]

When I got back to campus, my choice was between revision and going to Keynestock, the really poorly named annual battle of the bands festival. I mean, if they were going to use a college name in its title, couldn't it be Rutherfordstock? Since people pronounce "Rutherford" as "Rutherfud" and therefore it rhymes with wood? Or how about Park Woodstock, in honour of the area of campus named Park Wood? I suppose it is outside Keynes College though, and The Keynes Festival and Keynesfest would sound equally naff.

Anyway, it's not that I don't like revising, because, really, I love it, but my room was sweltering, and I'm not allowed to open the window (don't ask why), and if I revised outside all my papers would blow away, so I went to Keynestock.

On my way, though, I went into the campus shop in search of sunscreen. At the start of the academic year, I'd brought some with me (and had no use for it whatsoever), but I'd forgotten to bring it back this term. So I was expecting to have to pay somewhere between two to four pounds for a bottle . . . but it was ten quid!

Ten pounds. Seventeen US dollars. Twenty two Canadian dollars. Approximately twenty Australian or New Zealand dollars. Two hundred Austrian schillings. 630 Belgian francs. 15.36 Euros (according to Sofie). Sorry anyone, if I've not mentioned how much it is in your country's currency, but you get the idea: A Lot Of Money.

I wasn't paying that much for something I probably wouldn't get the chance to use until next summer, when I'd have no doubt left the bottle at home. I didn't even have ten pounds with me! Nope, thought I, I'd rather burn.

(After all, burning is a v. Curic and therefore gothic thing to do.)

So I went to Keynestock, and it was pretty good. Better than my other experiences of unprofessional live music anyway. I stayed for nearly the entire thing. Besides, I got in free, when I should have paid three pounds. This wasn't a carefully calculated criminal act: I simply walked in, realised everyone else was wearing blue armbands, and didn't particularly feel like finding someone selling them. After all, they clashed with my black arm spikies. Bryn felt slightly guilty, because, as President of The Rock Society, it is his duty to do everything he can to ensure that live music on campus continues, but a lot of people were there, so I don't think my non-payment can have done too much damage.

A rather weird thing happened. You see, I brought a copy of Classic Rock with me. It kept me from getting bored (the bands visible weren't exactly visually thrilling, apart from the guy who threw a load of bread at the audience then started reading a book, so decent articles about Sepultura and electronic music were much appreciated) and it kept my thighs from burning up.

I looked up when one act declared they were dedicating their set to Douglas Adams, who had just died. I looked down again, and saw an advert for the next issue. "Boston's (reformed) bad boys come out to play as CLASSIC ROCK speaks exclusively to the Toxic Twins about life, the universe and - what was it? - oh yeah . . . EVERYTHING!"

I know that phrase gets used all the time. In fact, I used it the previous day: "Soppygit spent four hours speaking to Steve The Sci-Fi Freak about life, the universe and everything, but mostly the universe." Still, I find it slightly spooky.

Anyway, after a while, I noticed that my neck was going slightly red. Bryn quickly offered me his jumper so I could cover myself up (only to find the jumper had been splattered by bird poo or chewing gum). I held it over me for the remainder of the event anyway, but my arms started to feel sore, and when I got back to my room, the mirror showed they and my neck and my nose were burnt.

Grr! I am adding sunscreen to my List Of Things That Will Be Available Free On The NHS When I Rule The World. Its other items being instant medical attention, condoms (they are free at UKC, but not at Sheffield University. Despite the fact that I have no desire to sleep with anyone in Sheffield [sorry Helen, our marriage must remain unconsummated] it's still Not Good Enough) and sanitary towels (for it is a tax on women, although Soppygit informs me that you can get them v. cheaply at Netto's). If people don't want to pay the tax that will be necessary to provide all this, they don't have to, they'll just have to pay a lot for the specific healthcare they want.

What could be fairer? I'm not so sure about my other politic persuasions, but with a policy like that, I think I'm in with a chance at the general election anyway. Must go and work on my campaign.

Sunday 13 May 2001

I spent yesterday evening watching Simpsons episodes and "Clerks" with Bryn. I fell asleep five minutes into "Friday" though. This morning, when I woke up, I thought, "Hey, my arms don't feel so bad." Then Bryn shifted position, and it was all I could do to keep from crying out.

Once more it was hot outside. "Ok, weather, you win," I thought. "I'll buy some sunscreen."

But the campus shop had sold out of it! Grr!

In other news, Ibid is very upset over not being able to watch this year's Eurovision Song Contest through lack of a television set.

But hurray, for my jeans are now dry!

Monday 14 May 2001

What was I thinking? I am a compass-phobe and I am going out with a compass-maniac.

(By compass, I mean the thing you use to draw circles, not the thing that tells you where you're going. The latter, I'd find incredibly useful.)

It's not exactly that I'm *afraid* of compasses. I just don't like them, in the same way that I don't like lighters, needles and razors (how ungoth of me!) because they can cause pain, either due to accident or someone else's evilness. And again, it's not that I'm scared of pain, just that I suffer enough of it as it is (how goth of me!) I stood on my bra last night and yelped as the clasp bit into my foot, and every day, I seem to bang my knee against the wooden arm of the chair in my room. Therefore, I wish to avoid more agony at all costs.

And it's not exactly that Bryn has a compass fetish. Just that if he discovers there's something I really don't like (other examples being the squeak of polystyrene, the song "Cat's In The Cradle" [I've just heard it too many beeping times] and Pikachu), he'll torment me with it as much as possible.

And therefore, when I returned to university this term, I made sure I put my compass in a place he'd never find.

Sadly, I've forgotten where that place was, and I'll no doubt never find it either, and I have an exam tomorrow where I'll probably need a compass, and the campus shop doesn't seem to sell any. I could look harder, but it took me about ten minutes just to find some cheap biros, so I could be there all day, and I need to revise. Argh!

In happier news, I dyed my hair last night, so it's finally black again, and the sun has gone away, so it's not instantly going to get roots.

Not that the sun gets roots, generally.

I do not like it when I can't do past exam questions, no matter how many notes I consult. How the hemp do you annihilate a matrix with a polynomial? I'd rather just use a bomb.

I've been to the campus bookshop. I've been to ::shudder:: the dreaded library. And I stiiiiiiiiill haven't fouuuuuund what I'm looking for! (Speaking of which, I wish the person upstairs who listens to U2 would start again. If I must be disturbed by other people's music, I'd rather it was that than next door's Eminem and Toni Braxton.) Anyway, this is why I am on the Internet: I'm going to look it up here, and hope for the best. Somehow, though, I ended up writing in my journal first.

It's raining. Hmph. (Hallelujah! It's raining hmph! Oh bumph!) Just because I didn't want it to be sunny doesn't mean I want it to rain, as that'll wash the dye out.

Ok. To work!

Wednesday 16 May 2001

The curse of the smiley Nirvana shirt continues: whenever I wear it, I see someone else who is also wearing one.

It was understandable when this happened in Camden and at indie night. Seeing someone wearing one at the cinema was a bit strange, but today, I wore it to an exam, and someone else wore a jacket of the same design. Splerd!

Anyway. I had an exam yesterday afternoon and one this morning. Both went reasonably well, despite having had very little sleep lately, and no matrix annihilation was required of me.

I attempted to see my algebra lecturer, to find out what it was anyway, for future reference, but he wasn't in. When I returned to my room to find that a flier had been stuck in my door. Like most fliers that get put there, it advertised a night at a nightclub. "Pyjamarama!" it said. "Dress up . . . get in free! What you wear for bed, no cheating!"

I think I'd better give it a miss. Not only could I not stand to be in a place of such icky grammar, but I don't really want to be arrested.

I wonder, how many people my age actually dress for bed in a way that would be acceptable at a nightclub? Even when I'm sleeping alone, I wear a big t-shirt and underwear, and the former tends to reveal the latter. And blokes, who just wear boxers or track suit bottoms, wouldn't be let in. The Venue, for instance, generally permits you regardless of dress (judging by the fact that Bryn has gone in my PVC dress on one occasion and chainmail on another), but it will not permit men to remove their shirts.

Also, no one wears shoes to bed (except Steven Tyler, apparently), and someone always drops a glass on the floor at a nightclub.

You can tell I really don't want to do any Sadistics, can't you?

Thursday 17 May 2001

I managed to see my Algebra lecturer. Apparently matrix annihilation is usually on the syllabus but wasn't this year. The polynomial you use is the same one as that which tells you the eigenvalues.

In case you care.

I also got the marks for the final two pieces of coursework for The Entirely Coursework Based Module. 50% on the third computing assignment (darn, I knew it seemed too easy) and 65% on the essay, which isn't too bad, considering that's a merit and I had to cut out about 40% of what I'd written, due to length restrictions. What *is* bad that the mark was phrased as "13/20" and it took me five minutes to realise that meant 65%, not 70%. This is my fifteenth year of studying Mathematics, and still I can't do simple arithmetic.

Anyway, that means I've got at least 73% in that module, which is a distinction. Hooray!

Yesterday evening, I was over at Rutherford Dining Hall. I don't know if I was feeling really tired or laughing hysterically - both happened quite often that night - but either way, I felt the need to bury my head in my hands.

Bryn leaned over, examined my hair, and said, "You've got roots."

"I can't have," I protested. "It was only dyed three days ago."

But he asked the opinion of Soppygit, Ibid, John and Chris, and they all confirmed that I had roots.

Grr! I know the dye says, "Remains vibrant for up to six weeks" and three days does count as less than six weeks, but I still feel cheated.

However, determined to make the best of the situation, I said, "I've got 'Roots'? That's weird. I don't remember buying any Sepultura albums."

At the same time, Bryn said, "'Roots' - Sepultura's song about a bad hair day."

The evidence that we keep thinking the same things is building up. If we're still together in six months' time, we'll be talking in unison. Consequently, Soppygit will fear me (I think she already does) and Ibid will hate me. Woe!

Monday 21 May 2001

On Friday, Bryn and I went to see Alice Cooper play in London. Outside Wembley Arena, we got stopped by a woman asking to take a photograph. Wahey, that's the third time! Yes, I know I only get photographed because I hang around with freaky people, not because I myself am particularly freaky, but at least they don't say, "Oi, you, out of the way while I photograph your freaky friend."

By the time we reached the arena, there was already sound coming from inside. We had a bit of difficulty finding our way in, and were so surprised at the positioning of our seats (they seemed further forward than we'd anticipated), that we got up again to make sure they were the right ones. By the time we were settled, the drummer from Dio (the support band) was finishing a set. It was q. good.

Then the rest of the group came on. Their front man used to be in Black Sabbath and Rainbow, so they were fairly impressive. Throughout the performance, people in the audience kept standing up. No one directly in front of us did at first, but they did during the penultimate song, so we did too.

And, after minimal messing about, the foul creature that is Alice Cooper hit the stage, and everyone got to their feet.

The show was much the same as the last one. Same songs, same antics, only I couldn't see as well. The perils of being short! (Furthermore, when huge balloons were sent into the audience, although two came straight at me, taller people bounced them out of the way before I could reach.) Also, it all seemed to happen a lot more quickly - the songs were faster, less happened between them, and Alice's reincarnation seemed to take less time. The decapitation looked less realistic, too. Nevertheless, there were bits of the show I'd forgotten, like the woman with the whip, which Alice steals before pushing her off the platform, and the t-shirt with "Britney Wants Me" on the front and "Dead" on the back. The drum solo was just as impressive as before.

And certain things were better. Being able to dance was good (although my shoulder started giving me grief, since I couldn't put my bag down and it had one of Bryn's horrendously heavy Biology textbooks in it) and my seat was by the aisle so I had some space. I've bought a lot more of his albums since last time, so I was able to appreciate the set more. "Brutal Planet", "Poison", "Only Women Bleed" and "School's Out For Summer" all sounded bloomin' excellent. And last time, he complained about a guy in the front row wearing a Kiss t-shirt; this time, it was, “I come all the way the way to London, and some guy in the front row is wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt!”

And then there were the guest appearances. One from Britney Spears - well, someone who looked like her anyway. As she came on stage, the opening of "Hit Me Baby One More Time" was played. She approached Alice and made that request of him. He looked at her, then at the audience, and grinned. "Ok then," he said, and socked her.

And, the drumbeat of "We Will Rock You" by Queen started. The guitar came in, but neither of the guitarists on stage were playing. Enter Brian May (!) (Queen's guitarist), who stayed for "School's Out For Summer". It's not usually one of my favourite Alice Cooper songs, but with an extra guitarist, it sounded truly funchie.

Afterwards, I managed to refrain from buying any merchandise. Annoyingly, unlike all the other celebrities I've come close to this term, I didn't manage to get Alice's autograph - although that was no surprise. Bryn and I got on the tube and hurried towards Victoria station. We got on the train less than a minute before it left. It was totally packed, but eventually we found seats.

We spent the night at Bryn's parents' house in Sittingboure, but left early in the morning (by our standards, anyway), since we needed to get back to Canterbury. We arrived, ran into Ibid, then headed back to Bryn's house, which took a while to get into, since some sod had stolen his keys in London. Luckily, his housemate with a downstairs bedroom was awake. We gathered various clothes for the banquet that night, went to my room where I changed my New Rock boots for trainers, then stood in Keynes College's car park for three quarters of an hour, while we waited for everyone who was going horse riding to turn up. (Horse-riding is for the benefit of re-enacting types, so they can learn to fight on horseback.) Soppygit and Ibid passed by and we popped bubble wrap that Ibid had stolen from Netto's for a while. Then we went horse riding. Well, Bryn rode, I just lay there. Ok, sat there, revising Calculus, and watching him deal with a horse called Rhino who Really Didn't Like Him.

Afterwards, we were transported to a country club type o' place in Ramsgate, where the medieval banquet was to be held. We were supposed to have gotten changed at someone's house, but there wasn't time, so we did so in the car park. At this point, I realised I wouldn't be able to wear my Alice Cooper t-shirt under the garment, and did my best not to show the world my underwear.

The garment was red (so was Bryn's - people continually made jokes about us matching), and so long it trailed on the ground (just as well, since I was wearing très inauthentic trainers), and very wide. It was also very obviously designed for the more broad shouldered Bryn than moi.

We froze to death outside for a while, casually watching those who had brought weapons fighting for the right to sit on the top table. Their efforts were a little half-hearted, since no one really wanted to sit on the top table. Then we went inside, and ate and drank and made merry. Well, the eating and drinking parts were actually a bit difficult, due to the entertainment going on around us. We were forced to make up songs, chant "on 'is 'orse, with an 'awk, in 'is 'and!" repetitively (nobody could work out why 'e was 'olding an 'awk), watch gentlemen removing plastic cups from various body parts of ladies using only their teeth, bid, sing some more, send forth a jester from each table to entertain the lord with a joke (he proclaimed Bryn's "A woman went into a bar and asked the barman for a double entendre. So he gave her one" the best, which annoyed me no end, since although I like it a lot, I've heard it 23470234234 times in the last few weeks), toast multiple things, and so forth.

Bryn was required to slap himself twice, and when awards were given out, he won one for being Biggest Monkey. Someone challenged this, but he out-monkey-ed them by far. The prize was a "grow yer own sea monkeys" set. He was rather pleased with it.

Afterwards, there was a disco, which lasted about three hours. The quality o' music was very impressive: the first song was "Sit Down" by James, but Bryn and I ignored it and danced for most of the night. (I apologise for my increasingly frequent usage of the word "o'". I blame Bryn, for he buys Deadlands books with titles like "Rain O' Terror".) There was Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, and four Madness songs in a row, among other goodness. Spirits were high (in accordance to the level of spirits consumed) and everyone danced as insanely as their authentic shoes would allow them to. In the middle of it, there was a raffle. Bryn and I both won prizes - sadly they were only a packet of Cola bottle shaped sweets and a bar of nougat. The count succeeded in drawing his own ticket.

When the evening started to wind down, a number of us stood around cautiously in a gazebo, petrified of being hit by a plastic arrow fired by Baron Anne. When the place closed, Bryn and I and some others walked back to The House What Was Warmed A Few Months Ago, where we slept.

Tuesday 22 May 2001

The only reason I have the computer switched on is because I have "Hot Dog" by Limp Bizkit stuck in my head, and the only way I can listen to it is through Real Jukebox. (Of course I don't own a Limp Bizkit album.) And since I'm here, I might as well write a journal entry, bringing you up to speed on the current situation. After all, it's a mathematical song. I can count the number of "f***"s while I write.

Tonight it is indie night at The Venue.

Not only that, but it is the last indie night until September or October.

I like indie night.

I would like to be there. Especially since I've been to every indie night this academic year. And I missed that last 80s night.

I have a Discrete Maths And Probability Exam tomorrow morning.

I don't like Discrete Maths And Probability, especially not in exam form.

More than that, I hardly know any Discrete Maths And Probability. The lectures were a long time ago, and I slept through most of them. The only thing I recall learning in them is that one of the lecturers had a moor hen in his garden at the time of lecturing.

Apart from that, I made fewer revision notes for this subject than any of my other subjects.

I don't have any information telling me how to answer some of the questions in past exam papers.

I'm starting to get tired.

All the other exams have gone reasonably well, so one of the remaining two is bound to be horrible, and it's more than likely to be tomorrow's.

Bryn is at indie night.

Bryn doesn't have an exam until Friday.

I don't love Bryn quite as much as usual right now.

Wednesday 23 May 2001

Oh, I am a jammy git! Whenever it comes to academic exams, no matter how little preparation I've done, they go swimmingly. I didn't think this landing on one's feet lark could last beyond my GCSEs, but you could call my A Level grades pretty good, and now I've only one exam left, which I've already passed (with coursework) and the ones I've had have been, to paraphrase Dido (I cannot respect a musician whose name is only one letter away from "dildo"), not so bad, not so bad at all.

When I got back from my exam, my window panes were propped against the desk, there was a step ladder and a toolbox on my floor, some blue kitchen roll sat on my chair, and an alien mobile phone lay on my bed. My million sheets of paper were fluttering in the breeze.

This didn't come as a complete surprise, since two men tried to come round and fix my window on Thursday, but they left me alone as I was revising.

However, the owner of these belongings was nowhere to be seen. But, I have a nifty trick! If ever I'm lonely, and want someone to come to my room, all I have to do is go to the toilet. It nearly always works! And so I went to the toilet, and sure enough, when I returned, the men were back!

Wednesday 30 May 2001

I don't know where it came from, but my sleeping patterns must have had some really good sex lately, because they're completely f***ed. I wake up after five hours and can't sleep again. I spend half the day in bed, but experience minute-long yawns throughout the rest of it. Even "The A Team" won't lull me into slumber. I imagine it's something to do with it being hot, it getting light outside before 4am, and having grown accustomed to cramming all the sleep I need into a 4 hour long period, but whatever the cause, if you're looking for a fun time, don't be Zed.

Actually, when Bryn, rather than my lack of sleep, is the dominating factor of my life, it's a lot of fun being Zed. But you don't want to know about that. Ok, yes you do (unless you're related to either of us), but I don't want to tell you about it. So ha. Instead, I will talk about the other things I do for fun. Like yesterday, when I went to the seaside!

Ever since I arrived in Canterbury, I have been very close to the coast. (Well, that's obvious. Towns don't exactly move around the country, even if I am in them.) Often, whenever one took a bus from town to the university, or vice versa, it would list Herne Bay and Whitstable as more distant destinations. And yet, the thought of going to either of them never occurred to me. After all, I accidentally ended up in Whitstable very early on in my stay at university, and the station at 1.30am on a Wednesday night didn't leave a particularly good impression of the place.

However, Ibid declared that when she finished her exams, she planned to spend a day beside the seaside, beside the sea, and I asked if I could accompany her. Not entirely surprisingly, she consented. She finished her exams on Saturday 26th, and we weren't sure how well the buses would run on Sunday and Monday (which was a bank holiday), and I agreed to go into Canterbury with Bryn on Tuesday, so Wednesday it was.

Although I expected it to snow, the weather was absolutely byutiful, although not too hot for comfort. We waited ages for the bus, caught it deftly, and then spent the journey wondering about where we were supposed to disembark. At the second stop in what seemed to be Herne Bay, although it was a housing area, we decided not push our luck and get off there.

We had a bit of trouble finding the sea front. We did, however, find a Mace supermarket. The importance of this is, they were supposed to cease to exist in the 60s. However, my family discovered one on the west coast of Ireland, and here was another. It was as tacky as we'd hoped and had a cash machine that took five minutes to dispense cash, as if someone inside it went to the nearest bank to get some! I sent a text message to Noj telling him to inform Mum of this. He was completely baffled, but Mum was just as pleased as me.

When we at last found the sea, the sea, we bought a bucket and spade and a hand grenade. Actually, the hand grenades were too expensive, so we had to make do with a bucket and spade. We choice yellow ones. We then tried to find toilets. On the way, we saw a bouncy castle and numerous trampolines - we groaned at being probably too old to use them - and we passed something called a "Tele-Go-Round":

If you put a two pence coin in a slot, some tinny music would play while some character from children's television programme would emerge from behind a door and move about for a bit, before disappearing abruptly. Most of them, we recognised (although I couldn't imagine kids in this day and age knowing who Count Duckula is). However there was one called "Wiggli Willi", which was a girating plant thing, who did, in shape, bear a resemblance to something dodgy!

It was so crap! We loved it! And when I put my two pence in, I got the bonus prize - all the characters emerged at once!

We sat on the shingle beach for a couple of hours. We spent most of the time reading, but Ibid went for a paddle in the sea. Then, at about three o'clock, we decided to find a slightly sandier area, to utilise the bucket and spade.

And so we built a sandcastle. Sorry, a sandcarstle, given that it was in the south of England. Actually, it was a bit more like a shingle ruin. The beach sloped, the sand wasn't really hard enough, and the bucket was a bit dodgy - the sides were vertical, so the towers collapsed with ease. Attempts to make a drawbridge were quickly abandoned. We tried to decorate it with shells, but that just made it collapse further. Still, it wasn't bad, considering neither of us had built one in many years.

I dug a hole, took off my shoes, and went to the water's edge, where I paddled a bit (it's the first time I've been in the north sea since 1989, I think) and filled the bucket with water. I hobbled back to the hole, flinching and spilling water with every step over the sharp shingles, and poured the water into the hole, and watched it drain away. Hooray for simple pleasures!

We bought postcards for our relatives and spinning shiny flowery thingies for Soppygit and Bryn (the tackiest bumph we could find). We investigated the arcade - it is one of the few places in Britain that still has two-penny falls! (Most places have 10p ones, which are a rip off in the highest order.) However, we were a bit worried about getting a bus back to Canterbury, so we left quickly. We found a bus without difficulty, though, and went home, watching the spinning thingies rotate rapidly in the wind.

***

Ever since term started, Bryn has been torturing me with a stuffed newt that is for sale in the campus shop. (Actually, the label says it's an eel, but I spent so long thinking that it was a crocodile that I can't change my way of thinking again.)

This is because I have a strong aversion to stuffed animals. I still like werebears, but the ones that don't turn into monsters seem soulless, and the act of a boy buying one for his girlfriend makes me want to puke. I know I am probably one of the few girls in the world who feel like this: when some teenage girls observed Bryn's brother buying his girlfriend a toy, they begged to take her place. But I grew up in a household where soppiness was not tolerated, and so I can only view this gesture as sickeningly sentimental.

In any case, when I was young, I always preferred the unisex toys, or those designed for males, to ones for females. Admittedly, I had (and still have) a huge collection of Sylvanian families (little clothed woodland animals), but their appeal wasn't "aww, cute wickle animals" but “wahey, I can take their clothes off!” No, what I really liked were the soap operatic stories I could put them in. They all had such distinctive personalities. "Grandma Pearl's cooking is really bad - how can the other animals be diplomatic about it?"

Anyway, possibly because I spent most of my time in the company of males, I was much more of a car person. My Dad built me a wooden electric car that I could sit in when I was three. It was blue and had the number plate "CZW3". Our apartment had a really long corridor, which I drove it down. Of all the Sindy stuff I inherited from my cousin, the yellow car was my favourite. I spent my money on Lego vehicles, and my brother had a huge collection of toy cars which we played "Bases" with: we had a model of a wooden, open-topped castle, and a cardboard space station thingy, which were v. good for moving cars around. (Regardless of this, I am still totally useless at identifying types of car these days. Probably because we called ours things like "The Banana Lorry" and "The Shiny Happy People Car" (since it had flowers on it).)

Anyway, soft toys demand a lot of attention (mine moreso than most, but I'll come to that in a minute), and I rarely sleep in my own bed these days, so they deserve a better owner than me. However, I did admit that the newt was fairly cute. Most teddy bears have sad expressions on their faces, I've noticed, and there are some particularly miserable looking seahorses in the campus shop. However, the newt appeared to be smiling. Unfortunately, it has shining come-to-bed-with-me eyes, which are off-putting. The knowledge that Bryn would make it say, "I miss you!" and sing "Back For Good" in a tearful high-pitched voice was more reason to resist it. (He did that with my werebears at the end of the previous term. Mykos, it was annoying.)

And alas! Recently, we have started going to the campus shop every evening! Not because we want to buy anything there, but the fact that Soppygit has seen Walter Winterbottom there before means she always wants to check whether he's present. (Side note: apparently Walter Winterbottom was the manager of England's football team for sixteen years! This does put an interesting spin on his life!) And since the newt lives right at the front of the shop, I am always approached by it. Woe!

***

On the evening of 25 May, the fire alarm went off, but luckily I was planning on leaving my room anyway, pour voir "Chocolat" au cinema avec Soppygit et Steve. It was v. good. Bryn stayed in my room to revise (since he had an exam the next morning); when I returned, he reported that I'd had a phonecall followed by a text message some time later. The phonecall was from Chris - Bryn had thought better than to answer, because he claims he would have been rude - and the text message was from Helen saying, "Chris just called. Aargh!" I feel so relieved, but poor Helen.

Four days later, Bryn and I went into Canterbury. I bought "Glue" by Irvine Welsh and as well as "The Feeble Files". We also went to see "The Mummy Returns" at the cinema in town. Despite not having seen "The Mummy" and not having wanted to see "The Mummy", I rather enyojed it, and now I do want to see "The Mummy". When I got out, I saw that I'd had another phonecall from Chris! The guy has a knack of calling while I'm at the cinema! But I couldn't call back as I'm not allowed to make outgoing phonecalls of any great length, since my parents are paying the bill. I wasn't particularly broken-hearted, though.

(And no, I'm not entirely a cruel b***h whose hand of the playing cards o' life only contains spades, clubs, diamonds and jokers, for despite the fact that I owe him nothing, nuh-uh, nothing at all! I sent him a v. long e-mail on Saturday. Although admittedly, it ended, "You must come and see me during the holidays. Not because I want to see you or anything, but you owe me money.")

***

On Sunday, Bryn and I went to a barbecue and the home of some friends of his. Most of the food and drink was stolen, but since the general consensus was that it was horrible (the salmon burgers, at any rate, didn't go down too well), methinks the hosts did the supermarket a favour by nicking it. Two little kids gatecrashed the party, but they left shortly after Bryn started trying out one of their scooters. (Even people who don't know him can see how skilled he is at breaking things.) Also, I discovered the best Transformers ever. I now know I am not the only one who, on becoming a student, bought toys that were their parents told them were too expensive when they were young.

***

Recently, Bryn, Ibid and I found a strange passion for going for long walks. On Monday, we walked around Park Wood (the area of campus filled with houses), sat beside the running track for a long time, wandered through some forest (every time we reached a clearing, Bryn declared it would be an excellent location for a Pit) and sat outside Keynes College for a while. On Tuesday, we just walked around Park Wood, since Ibid had to eat before we went to the cinema (to see "Last Resort" - no, not a rockumentary about Papa Roach, but an asylum seeker stuck in Margate, a town about twenty miles away from Canterbury - twas pretty good). On Wednesday, though, we left campus and found some strawberry fields, which were full of fluffy dinosaurs and computers that worked perfectly. (You know, strawberry fields, nothing is real.) Then Ibid insisted on heading for some trees, because she wanted to hug them. Bryn and I refrained from joining in; instead, he made me try and befriend a pine cone. I refused.

We walked on and found ourselves in Harbledown graveyard. (Harbledown being another town.) Ibid walked on the graves and Bryn yelled at her. "I can't help it, I always have done," she said. Being a vicar's daughter, she has always lived beside a graveyard and therefore has no qualms about them whatsoever. She expressed a wish to see some intricate 18th century graves, Bryn pointed her in the direction of some, and she declared it was the best graveyard ever. Bryn sighed and told her that most graveyards in Kent were like that. She decided she had to see some more and soon. I suggested that she wrote a book called "The Good Graveyard Guide". (We are already writing "The Good Toilet Guide" and she's considering "The Good Second Hand Bookshop Guide" (only available in second hand bookshops). My first non-fiction book will be entitled "A Hundred Ways To Ruin A Perfectly Good Black T-Shirt", though.)

***

Today, Bryn and I made discoveries that put Christopher Columbus's to shame. (After all, who'd want America?)

Last August, Twi and I were watching a film (or movie, given that we were in America), and before it, we saw a trailer for a film about gay British school boys. To me, it looked really good in a silly sort of way, but I couldn't recall the title. Ever since then, I've been wondering off and on what it was, for I wanted to watch it.

And then along came a livejournal survey (that sat down . . . and got scurvy?) which asked "What sort of films should there be more of?" And so I replied, "Ones about gay British school boys" and asked if anyone knew what the film I was thinking of was.

And along came Katherine F (who sat down . . . and went deaf? Gosh, the price you pay for sitting down in this place!) and suggested some films it might be. I checked out the most likely suspect at IMDB, and lo and behold, that was the one. ("Get Real" in case you're interested.) I wondered how much it would cost to buy, and checked it out on Amazon, and some other place that doesn't charge for postage and packing whose name I've forgotten.

It was only £5.99 there, so I bought it straight away (or gay away). Happy was I.

But that wasn't all! Quite some time ago, Bryn asked me if I knew a certain song. He knew it was by a Hole-esque band, he could remember some of the lyrics, and he knew it had come out in 1994 or 1995. He had been wondering who did it ever since. But my musical knowledge of that period is rather poor, so I couldn't help.

But later on that day, we were randomly surfing the university network in search of MP3s. We found some quite pleasing tracks, then he downloaded a file from a folder marked "K's Choice" named "I Am An Addict". He started playing it, and immediately recognised it as the song he'd wondered about all these years. (Although the song’s called “Not An Addict”.)

The only trouble is, he has been repeat playing it ever since. Even when I instructed him to disassemble my computer (since term's about to end and I have to send my stuff home - I'm writing this on a public PC), he set the song playing, and removed as many components as he could (monitor, keyboard, mouse) without stopping it. And he still keeps singing "I'm not an addict!", although he is clearly completely addicted to that song. He will have to be forced to listen to thirty renditions of "Doctor Jones" a week in order to come off it.

Thursday 31st May 2001

I really want a pair of seven league boots. Imagine being able to run faster than the best athletes, and jump metres in the air. I can just imagine wearing them at indie night at the Venue. When you mosh, you'll really fly across the room. When you want to request a track, instead of going upstairs to talk to the DJ, you just have to jump. And everyone has New Rock these days - these will be one step ahead (if you'll excuse the pun) of the shoes of even the most devoted goth types.

Sadly, I believe production of them is slow. And I imagine they're immensely expensive. And I've heard that if you wear them for more than one day, they'll break your spine. Still. If anyone fancies getting me a really funchie twentieth birthday present, I'm a UK size 6.

Anyway. Bryn has his last exam tomorrow morning. Despite discovering someone who has exams both tomorrow morning and tomorrow afternoon (my former penpal Nicky), he continues to moan about having an exam on the last day of term for three years running.

So, because I am simultaneously nice, dodgy and totally unimaginative, I was planning on having some r***** o******* s** afterwards. (Really official sky? How bizarre.) (I don't suppose the asterisks make the thought any less disturbing, but at least it'll stop this page coming up in dubious Google searches.)

Buy yesterday I received a letter telling me that between 10am and 3pm tomorrow, prospective students would be looking round the university and being shown room 2 on my corridor.

My corridor only has rooms on one side, and I live in room 8. (I'll confess this now, since I'm moving out tomorrow.) However, in this building, sound travels like Bill Bryson.

I can just imagine it now. "This is a typical student room." *hysterical laughter from down the corridor. Everyone looks in that direction.* "And that is some students having a very good time. What more incentive do you need to come here?"