Today, in Safeways', I noticed the front cover of "Sugar", the teenybopper magazine. Under the heading "Shocking true stories!" or something, it listed, "I caught my boyfriend wearing my bra!"

Um. I'm probably a bit biased since I actively encourage my boyfriend to my school uniform. (A few days ago, I found out that there is a technical name for such a fetish. Unfortunately, I accidentally deleted the e-mail it was mentioned in.) However, is it just me or is there nothing shocking about that? Hasn't the writer ever seen "Wayne's World"?

The story listed under that was "A rare disease made me kiss cars!"

Monday 3 September 2001: Beginning Of An Experiment In Pretentiousness (Originally Hand-Written)

On Saturday night, after horse-riding, Bryn called me and said to go round to Re-Enactor Anna's. Anna, Sarah and Amanda (who live there) were nowhere to be seen. Instead Mark and Anthony (nearly a famous Roman) and later Daniel were present. We watched the first five episodes of Buffy season 2 while Bryn attempted to make a newspaper template so as to paint a yellow cross onto his shield. He attached it with Anthony's surgical tape, but when he painted the following day, the tape lost its stickiness and the cross looked very pants indeed.

Anna's house has the weirdest bathroom ever. I knew it was upstairs: I tried the light switch of the first room I came to, but it didn't work. However, I saw what looked like bedroom furniture inside. I checked out the other rooms, but they were bedrooms. I called from Bryn's assistance; he revealed a pull switch draped over the door. When the light was on, I saw that the bath did look like a bed; the sink was set into a cabinet, which resembled a chest of drawers; there was something un-toilet-esque about the lavatory; and there was a chair and a table and many plants. It was bigger than my bedroom and carpetted.

Anthony said something about an STD code. He meant "Subscriber Trunk Dialling" by STD, but Bryn and I looked at each other with the same thought.

The next day, a phone call from Mark woke us at 10.30. The five of us met in Julie's Café; "News Of The World" lay on the table, filled with football news. (England beat Germany 5-1 in Munich the previous night.) In the afternoon, Bryn fought while I read "The Dirt" (Motley Crue's biography). That evening, we watched a video and listened to the first two sides of "Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets".

Today, I went to campus. Handed in a form for Bryn and asked for student certificate. Went to campus shop and bought stamps and a Mars Bar as well as the exercise book I'm writing this in. On the till, it said, "MARS BAR STD". STDs are everywhere these days! And what's the Mars Bar variety? If you stick one in someone, will they get a disease? I hope it doesn't count if you put one in your mouth, as that's what I did.

Went to the computer room and wrote to Sleeve (who apparently lives there too, but I haven't seen yet). Also decided to buy the Marilyn Manson biography and The Best Of Motley Crue album in the near future. Byezebye yet more money.

Tuesday 4 September 2001

This will also prove an exercise in keeping my handwriting vaguely legible, if not consistent. This will be very useful when it comes to note-taking and especially doing exams. Hey, it's useful for me to practice writing at all. I'm already getting hand cramps.

Read "So Much To Tell You" by John Marsden. Very good - I didn't want it to end. Also made a character list for The Novel and started writing about the faghags in it, but "The Weakest Link" came on, putting an end to that plan.

I ate a lot. This morning, there is no bread in the house, and it was raining until I had a shower. Outside, the sky is still grey. I pray for dryness to remain until 9, when I shall go out, learn whether it is possible to get a bus to Pean Hill (for there is a job there which I may be capable of, which lasts an ideal 2 weeks); buy provisions; see if I can get the Marilyn Manson biography (and maybe Aerosmith's) and investigate Motley Crue albums.

We watched "Farscape" (episode 2, season 3) last night. Having only ever seen one other episode (episode 1, season 3), I have no idea what's going on, but one of the characters was magnetic and got attached to the ceiling where she chanted what sounded like "Lack maruka vay!" repetitively, ceasing only to issue warnings of disaster. It was freaky, and Bryn got a twenty minute phonecall from his mother, so he couldn't agree with me. (Or, more likely, learn the words for taunting purposes.) I wish I hadn't mentioned them here - this is supposed to be a place for me to write of uncomfortable experiences, but on rereading, this scene is likely to come back and haunt me. It may account for the creepiness of last night's dream. Not the part where my family went to see The Cardiacs Featuring Anne Robinson twelve times, but the bit where a bear in Iceland instructed me to drink "The Blood Of The Ancients" which was a big bottle of Robinson's orange squash.

ARGH! The smoke alarm just went off briefly a few times. Luckily, nothing seems afoot (or afire), but my heart is still racing. I do look forward to ceasing to live alone (Bryn is at work for most of the day, making BMW parts). Although I'll have to be tidy and make Bryn be tidy: an impossible task!

House now making loads of noises. Suppose the heating should come on at this hour (8am), but it's freaky nonetheless.

Anyway, while Bryn was on the phone I saw a bit of a programme about work-related stress. In Japan, so many people are dying from it that they have a word for this phenomenon: karoshi.

I do not like having showers here, on the grounds that I'm cold throughout them. I dread January. For this reason (and the fact that I have to keep my music down for the neighbours), I am looking forward to moving out, although I'm happy here otherwise. When I get my own place, I may insist on it having a separate, doored, super-powerful shower. Here, you cannot get the nozzle to spray your whole body at once.

In the post, I got the VNV Nation tickets I'd ordered and much from Ibid for The Weird Sisters Website that needs typing.

I have figured out a way to primarily wear The Ankh but allow The Necklace Of Vast Dodginess to get regular airings too. I shall wear the ankh on goth days and the dodginess on punk days. On the grounds that I am wearing my long black skirt and Cure shirt, I guess you'd call this a goth day.

It is 8.20 and I am starving. Open, oh shops!

Later

Canterbury was swarming with kids in school uniforms at 9.30. Do they not have schools to go to?

I'm sure UKC didn't intend for me to spend my book tokens on Marilyn Manson's biography and Stephen King's "On Writing" but too bad! Ordered New Order's new album (what a groovy clause!) and Motley Crue's greatest hits from Amazon (since Crue CDs were a ridiculous £18.99 in HMV!) It seems slow, of late, but presumably only because I'm ordering more obscure objects than usual.

Phoned company about job and sent them my CV and Sadistics project. Went to campus, handed in Bryn's computer form and got my computer account sorted out. (I now have 25 megabytes of space on the university network too.) Typed Ibid's articles, but twenty one pages remain and I'm tired. Will go home and read.

Later

Every time Bryn goes to Alpha Computers, which is often, he leaves with a price list. Consequently, the house is full of them. Today, at Eliot College, I found they'd sent me a catalogue. He will be happy.

Apparently, the Mathematics department at UKC doesn't communicate much. On my way down Eliot footpath, I encountered my Geometry lecturer. He asked if I was on campus to do resits!

According to Mum, the smoke alarm was simply letting me know that it was running out of batteries.

Thursday 6 September 2001: "The Job Interview" or "Zed Worries Too Much"

6:00: Get up. Put on black trousers and red blouse.

9:40: Call company, since they told me to call after 9.30 to arrange an interview time. No answer.

10.10: Call again. Am told to be there for five. Have shower. Brush hair. Remove badges from coat. This activity seems to take a very large amount of time. Check bus timetable; decide to get bus at 16.38. Check wallet to see if funds will allow purchase of bus ticket. They do.

16:00: Close Marilyn Manson biography. Go to toilet.

16:02: Put biography in bag along with wallet, phone, bus timetable and instructions on how to get to place. Biography is for reading purposes, if having to wait for a bus proves necessary. It is also for proving my true self, if anyone suspects me of going "normal".

16:03: Try to find a matching pair of socks. Find light grey ones. Put them on. Remember that I will not be wearing New Rock boots, and therefore my sock colour will be evident (since all my trousers are too short). Remember grey socks do not go with black shoes and black trousers. Take off socks and find two non-matching black ones. Put them on.

16:04: Put on old school shoes. Am quite impressed at speed at which I tie the laces, given that I never do this. With my New Rock boots, I just tie a double knot; with trainers, I never undo the laces.

16:05: Brush teeth.

16:06: Decide that pen and file paper should also be taken. Might want to take notes if company presents me with too much drivel to imbibe.

16:07: Examine self. Wonder if blouse ever fitted, much less suited me. Decide that the fact that I wore a 34B bra last year and wear a 36DD now, despite lack of significant change in breast size, probably has something to do with the shirt's recent threat to expose lacy blackness.

16:08: Try to make blouse's collar look the same on both sides. Fail miserably.

16:10: Brush hair.

16:11: Decide that blouse would look a bit better if I wore a necklace. Since the only two I have with me are the ankh and the necklace of vast dodginess, I decide on letting my gothness show. (After all, my participation in the rock and metal society is already on my CV.)

16.12: While picking up ankh, notice that I'm still wearing nail polish. Fingers are alternately blue and red and a bit chipped. Beep! Attempt removal.

16.15: Sodding nail polish is not coming off at edges. Decide to take remover and cotton blobs with me.

16:16: Leave building. Discover that it is painful to walk in these shoes. The soles are too thin. Given the agony my New Rocks originally caused, I persevered with them in the hope of making my feet more resilient. Instead, I have developed a need for three inches of cushioning from the pavement.

16:20: Realise there is a bus stop much closer than I expected: right in front of me. Decide to walk to the other bus stop then back to pass the time, despite the amount of road-crossing this will involve.

16.25: Get back. Sit on bench. Start working on nails.

16.26: See bus. Heech! Is it mine?

16.27: See another bus. Heech! Decide to stop working on nails and concentrate on road.

16.40: Where is the beeping bus? Stand up so as to get a better view. Notice that the traffic has been stopped by a train.

16.42: See distant motionless bus.

16.44: Bus starts coming towards me.

16.45: Wrong bus! Beep!

16.46: Correct bus arrives. Feel very miffed about price of ticket. Ask driver what to look out for so I know I'm at my destination. He offers to let me know.

16.57: Pass building I'm meant to go to.

16.58: Get off bus. Walk back.

17.01: Have interview.

17.16: Am told they'll be in touch tonight or on the morrow. Leave building. See bus roar past. Walk back to bus stop.

17.18: Consult timetable. Realise I'm in for a long wait.

17.20: Decide to text online friend Helen to pass the time. Discover I have a message from future housemate Jo.

17.21: Text Jo.

17.22: Bus arrives! Ask driver if it's going to Canterbury. It is!

17.33: Disembark. Feel in pocket for wallet. Wallet not present. Check bag. Wallet present. Phew.

Bryn has gone away for the weekend, to re-enact. When I got back from the job interview, I spoke to Mum on the phone, went online, then put on my PVC dress, suspenders and fishnet stockings. The suspenders seemed to be inside out, but I didn't think I had time to right them.

The doorbell rang at 6.45, as "Superman" reached its closing minutes. Luckily, I heard voices on the doorstep, so I threw on and fastened my leather jacket before opening the door.

"Anthony's early," was the first thing Bryn said to me. So much for that plan. We watched "Buffy".

When she suggested that she had all the weapons from A to Z (the Z one being "Ze Other Axe"), Bryn asked if any of us, being experts on the matter (they re-enact, I've played a lot of Angband), could think of a weapon beginning with Z. I suggested myself. Bryn said, "You're not offensive."

Actually, there was once a time in my life, not so long ago, when I was considerered very offensive. I think going out with Bryn has changed this, though: he is so offensive that I have unconsciously decided to not even compete in an offensiveness competition.

Anthony said that the battle practice on Saturday might well not be on. "So you're going all the way to Largs-" (that's five hundred miles away) "-for four days, for one measly battle on Sunday?"

"And Bryn wants to leave early on Sunday too," Anthony pointed out. The subject was searching for his polish.

Bryn said he appreciated me dressing up for him. "Nah, this was what I wore to my job interview," I said. "When I said the job involved Sadistics, I meant it, not the statistical sort."

"I seriously hope you're joking," he said. He wasn't a hundred per cent sure!

When they left, I undid my jacket and started making toast. When I went to the fridge, I noticed Bryn's grudgingly purchased beer (Sainsbury's didn't have the sort he wanted) on top of it. I dashed outside with it. Luckily, they hadn't left, my wise move of wearing socks beneath my fishnets spared my wimpy feet from the evil pavement, and there didn't seem to be many people around.

During "Buffy", Bryn unearthed a bag of lollipops he's had for several months. He despairs of the things because "they take too long to eat". That, as far as I'm concerned, is their greatest virtue. I started eating one before I began this entry, and thirteen minutes after that, it's still going strong. There's nothing to it, but it provides plenty of satisfaction. I've thought before that I should start living on them; why I haven't yet, I don't know.

Friday 7 September 2001

Marilyn Manson can suck my d***. Oh, hang on, I don't have one. And he'd probably do it quite willingly, even if I did. And it's not his fault that my computer's a pile of a different Manson's band (Garbage). Still, every time I have anything to do with him, something goes annoyingly wrong.

See, he poses a conundrum for me. I like his songs and they keep getting stuck in my head, so I should buy the albums. However, my nearest (well, not at the moment, being five hundred miles away) and dearest already owns them and I can borrow them whenever I like, so there's no point in buying them. That said, on arriving home dead after Slimelight, I can't easily say, "Bryn, let's go to your house so I can get 'Disposable Teens' out of my head."

Such a problem can be quite easily righted once I can get my hands on the albums, as I own a CD Writer (although I probably won't be able to cease using the computer for long enough to burn). But that possibility is still a while away, so this morning I decided to go a-huntin' for an MP3 of "Disposable Teens" once again. I found a marvellous page with about thirty (*counts* - hey, exactly thirty!) Marilyn Manson MP3s on it, which were actually still up, unlike most MP3s on the Internet. It took a long time to download, but at last it was mine, all mine, not unlike Durham Pine! (Don't expect that to make much sense, if you don't live in the vicinity of a Durham Pine shop.)

This evening, when Internet access became free once more, I returned to that place set about downloading "Sweet Dreams". But when I got it, my computer declared, "There is not enough memory to run Real Jukebox. Quit some other applications."

So I got rid of Outlook Express, and clicked on the file again. Noot happened. I looked at the other stuff I had open, and noticed I had a "You are running out of disc space - want to clean computer?" dialogue box. This was most annoying, because this very morning, I'd moved half my music collection to my vastly empty D drive; how could C possibly be full again? Nevertheless, I said ok, and happily deleted the 4.76 MB in "Temporary Internet Files".

There went "Sweet Dreams".

So I'm downloading it again, and what's the betting it's not going to work? Very high: I haven't been allowed to start up Outlook Express again, and it won't let me open Real Jukebox either. Argh! Perhaps my computer is just deeply religious and objects to having such Satanic files placed upon it? It keeps messing up "The Dope Show" when I try to play it.

Today, I have a lot of interesting e-mail. Ibid tells me of another Mace supermarket she has discovered! Rammstein have cancelled their UK performance, and in order to get my money back, I have to return my tickets along with a copy of the e-mail. Since I have no printer, and I can't use of printers at UKC for some reason, I've had to ask Mum to print it for me. David Belbin the author wrote to me, asking about the "Forbidden" pages that came up when he went to my website. And I didn't get the job.

The other applicant was a postgraduate, they told me, so it makes sense. Am relieved: will be bored, but this is the far less scary predicament. I sent Bryn a text message telling him this, and that I'd need to practice Sadistics on him some more.

Saturday 8 September 2001

Today, the best sort of coincidence occurred. I tidied up the house (a very time consuming operation) since Jo and her parents were coming to drop her stuff off. I knew the cleanliness wouldn't last long, especially not with Bryn and his weaponry returning tomorrow, but shortly after they'd left, Bryn's parents came round and were well impressed by it!

Sunday 9 September 2001

I was about to watch a video with Soppygit and Sleeve, when I heard noises coming from the basement. I went down there and found Bryn about to rape a naked child. When I protested, he declared he was dumping me and tried to rape me. I screamed, went back upstairs and watched the video.

What a nice dream!

Monday 10 September 2001

Yeah. I really wanted to have a dream about my Dad having diarrhoea.

In happier news, it's 10/9/01! The second last palindromic date this year! Funchie!

Someone has been shifting Canterbury around again. This morning, the side streets were not where they should have been. Consequently, I walked past a bloke begging for change four times. The first time, he didn’t see me. The second time, he asked, and I said I hadn’t got any. He wished me a good day. The third time, he said, "Back again?" The fourth time it was "Hello again, gorgeous" and then he struck a conversation with a non-existent-person about me.

Wednesday 12 September 2001

Yesterday morning, I put on my “Hitler European Tour” t-shirt for the first time in ages. Yesterday evening, I discovered that World War 3 might be breaking out.

Thursday 13 September 2001

When I went into Canterbury today, I got wolf-whistled. The beep? I suspect it had something to do with the fact that I was wearing a skirt at least two degrees of shortness shorter than what Soppygit calls The “I Can’t Believe It’s So Short” Skirt. It was too cold to wear it, really, but all my other clothes were in the wash or the mail. My long crushed-velvet skirt has a hole which increases in diameter by the day; since I have no idea to sew in a practical fashion (although I’m funchie at embroidery and cross-stitch), I’m sending it home to Mum.

Not only am I useless as a housewife, but I’m useless as a man-of-the-house too. When I started the washing machine today, I couldn’t work out whether the water supplies were on or off. The machine started making a disturbingly high-pitched whistling noise, so I tried turning the taps. It still ran though, so I turned it off, and await Bryn’s advice.

Friday 14 September 2001

I cannot open the washing machine, no matter how hard I try. I shall have no choice but to wear The Skirt Of Extreme Shortness or The Extremely Smelly PVC Trousers or some equally inappropriate garment for the next few days, until Bryn returns. Note to self: do not live on own.

Saturday 15 September 2001

At about 1pm, Bryn phoned, to say that he was on campus, about to move into his house. I walked up, through the rain, to help him. But when I tried to get to Park Wood, I got lost: despite having lived on campus for a year, I still have no idea how to get there. I followed the signs, but they fizzled out, and I found myself in the middle of nowhere. I phoned him, and he told me to go to a place where his mother would pick me up. I did and she did, and she took me and Bryn back to my place; they’d finished moving the stuff in before I arrived. Oh well, it was good exercise.

Bryn couldn’t open the washing machine. However, despite telling him that I’d already tried going through another wash cycle, he insisted on trying this again. "Pre-wash," he said, "this is only supposed to take two minutes."

It was still going an hour and a half later, by which time Bryn had gone horse riding. At 5.30, the landlady came round, asking to have a look at it. I left her to it and after a few minutes she declared that she’d got the door open: it hadn’t opened, since it hadn’t been shut properly due to one of my socks getting trapped in the door. All she’d had to do was push the door fully shut. D’oh!

The only problem was "pre-wash" had gone straight onto "whites wash". Since my clothes were all manner of colours (I know, what sort of goth am I?), running, jogging and sprinting had occurred: one of my white socks has gone lilac and all my knickers (except the black ones) have purple edges. Still, it could have been a lot worse: my white t-shirt escaped more or less unscathed.

Sunday 16 September 2001: The End Of An Experiment In Pretentiousness

I may well have had the second second of my fifteen minutes of fame. (The first one being my shoes getting on Belgian television.)

Remember how, back in June, I went to Herne Bay with some re-enactment types and dressed up in re-enactment gear and we were photographed by people? Well, I knew one lot of them were from The Wetherspoon News (a really bad magazine they leave lying around in Wetherspoon’s pubs). So for the last few months, Bryn and I have been going into them, in search of this picture, but without avail.

Yesterday, after getting back from horse-riding, Bryn told me to go to The Pub (not a Wetherspoon's), so I did, where a bunch of re-enactment types were gathered. And one of them said that not only was our picture in The Wetherspoon News, but it had made the front cover!

Whether I’m in the picture or not, I do not know, because I wasn’t in all of them. Needless to say, however, Bryn and I will be going to a Wetherspoon’s very shortly to find out.

A bit later on, Stef and Iain (who we know from UKC) came into the pub. Despite it being his birthday, Iain wasn’t drinking, on the grounds that he was ill. Stef, a professional alcoholic, was therefore drinking for two. Anyway, she informed us that 1) Anna The Goth and Darren were back together and 2) Anna The Goth had been declared one of "the faces of Eurorock" and was on the front cover of the Eurorock magazine.

Grr! That’s a much better claim to fame than mine! Oh well, you can’t have everything. And she is decidedly more gothic than moi: her clothing is, at least, all black. I may have seen her in a purple garment once, but certainly not white!

After a few hours, Bryn, Anna, Anthony, Mark (who runs the re-enactment website, so I’ve sent him a copy of "My Boyfriend’s A Re-Enactor" for it) and myself went back to Anna’s house where we watched "Blackadder Goes Back And Forth".

We were going to watch a film that was on at ten, but it had been replaced by "Pulp Fiction". (A lot of TV schedules have been changed recently; I don’t think they want to show anything with a collapsing building in it.) Since 1) it’s about three hours long, 2) both Bryn and I had seen it before and 3) it was past our usual bed time, we went home.

Bryn went to battle practice this afternoon; I tidied the house, since The Others are arriving tomorrow and Tuesday. (I will be staying at Bryn’s parents' house as of tonight, so as to help him move all his stuff out of his room. I’ll return on Tuesday, though, as it’s Soppygit’s birthday party.) For the first time in my life, I did some vacuuming. In the interest of punning, I would say it sucked, but after putting it off and putting it off and putting it off, it wasn’t actually too bad. Except for the fact that the sucker was far too strong for a superwimp like me (Bryn: Do you have any arms?) and getting it to move anywhere was back-breaking work.

Wednesday 19 September 2001

Zed: Do you know Anna The Goth?
Sleeve: No.
Zed: Well, she's a goth. And she's called Anna.

On Tuesday, people united in grief over the great catastrophe that has befallen the planet.

"Oh no!" I hear you cry. "Not another journal entry about The World Trade Center!" (Or Centre. Microsoft Word objects to the American spelling.)

No, I'm talking about the following Tuesday, when something much more disastrous than that was discovered.

Indie night at The Venue is no more.

It has been deemed too unprofitable to be continued. Therefore, as far as I'm concerned, there remains only one possibly decent night at the Venue, for 70s night, 80s night and 90s night have been merged into one, and I don't know how well that will work. As far as a lot of people are concerned, there are now no decent nights at The Venue.

Alas and alack! The future for anyone into alternative music at UKC looketh very bleak indeed! I wish to introduce The Pendulum (like The Pit, but lighter - indie, punk and 80s rock), but I also wish to write a best seller and have a goth radio show presented entirely in a helium voice. Therefore, my wish to do something counts for little.

When Bryn got back to the house on Sunday, we had thirty minutes to get to the station. We hurried there, passing up the opportunities to see if we were on the cover of The Wetherspoon's News and talk to Fran and Janan (ooh, rhyming people!) who we encountered. Naturally, we reached the station about ten minutes early. We used the extra time to wander around. We found a tattoo studio, which led Bryn to decide getting a temporary tattoo saying "PRESIDENT" would be unwise. We also found a post box, which reminded me that I had a letter I needed to send. So our haste was not in vain after all.

Sunday evening was fairly uninteresting: there was a Star Trek marathon on TV, which helped me get to sleep. On Monday morning, we commenced Operation: Convert Bryn's Room Into A Guest Room by packing his books into boxes.

In the afternoon, we played computer games. We had been playing "Day Of The Tentacle" (which I can't recommend highly enough) for about an hour. "Shall we save it?" I suggested. Bryn ignored this piece of advice, and a couple of seconds later, the computer crashed.

We watched a load of TV and "Dude. Where's My Car?" Or, as it would be called in Latin, "ubi est automobilus meus, dudus?" I was pleasantly surprised by its "Bill And Ted"-ness, although the following day, Film Studies student Sleeve, the character formerly known as both Steve (but not AevilSteve) and Steve The Sci-Fi Freak, begged to differ:

Zed: There were about nine trailers, each one stupider than the last.
Sleeve: Leading up to the stupidest bit of all-
Zed: The film. Yeah yeah.

On Tuesday morning, further room dismantlement took place. At 1.15, I left, in order to get back for Soppygit's party. I hadn't a clue how to get to Sittingbourne station: luckily, David was going there too, so he showed me the way. I still haven't got a clue how to get there, as the route he took was very complicated, but oh well. On the way, we did a Freudian analysis of my dream the previous night. I was at Lowther Park and I wanted to go on the big red slide but Bryn wouldn't let me. Obviously this meant I wanted something very long, hard, red and slippery, and naturally Bryn wasn't too happy about this desire. (The fact that, aged seven, I Went Down On that slide repetitively, the bloke working at the top fancied me, and I was wearing a pink cap also speaks volumes.) The bit about me being in a Flintstone's style car and going to university with my friend who moved to New Zealand when I was fifteen was a little more symbolically charged, though.

The journey home was long and annoying. It rained throughout my half hour walk through Sittingbourne, my half hour wait on the platforms at Sittingbourne and Faversham due to delays, and my half hour walk home. I thought about going to Safeway's on the way, but since it was very much out of the way, I decided against it.

I ran into Anna The Goth and some of her friends, one of whom was wearing a badge I liked very much: "Game over. Please insert more drugs." I left them hurriedly, declaring my need to attend a party. I quickly assured them that the party would be alcohol-, drug- and music-free. They offered to crash it for me, but I decided against telling them where it was; Soppygit wouldn't have approved.

When I got home, I had an e-mail from one of my lecturers. Because I'd done so well last year, he asked if I'd help supervise first year MAPLE classes when term started. There would be twenty hours of them and I'd be paid £5.12 for each of them . . . "Funchie!" she thought. The only snag is I have to remember how to use MAPLE.

Ibid was there, and Jo and Soppygit returned from their trips into town presently. Then Sleeve turned up, with two of his friends, and Soppygit's friend Anna (not to be mistaken for Re-Enactor Anna or Anna The Goth) arrived with Her Friend Who Must Not Be Named Because She Shares A Name With At Least Five People Already To Have Featured In This Journal.

The plan had been to watch "The Matrix" and "Some Kind Of Wonderful", which Soppygit [hearts], because it is soppy, and more to the point, it has Eric Stoltz in it. She said we could watch something else instead of it, but after pooling all our video collections, we couldn't come to a conclusive agreement, so we decided to watch "The Matrix" first. Question: where does "Du Hast" feature in the soundtrack? But even without hearing that, I found it rockin', and everyone laughed at me when I started tapping my feet. I pointed out that, had Bryn been present, he would have been headbanging.

After that, Soppygit declared "Some Kind Of Wonderful" would be the perfect antidote. It was somewhat funny and Film Studies student Sleeve liked the directing. But at the end, it got SOPPY AS BEEP! (I say this on the assumption that beep is the epitome of all things soppy. I could well be wrong.) Soppygit threw cushions at Ibid and The Sleeve for their complaints, and Ibid went to the bathroom in the most putrid sequence.

After that, We Laughed A Lot, although it got a bit depressing towards the end of the evening, because Sleeve, once again being the typical Film Studies student by Being Depressing, kept talking about the imminent end of the world. Before that, though, Soppygit and I kept thinking and saying the same things at the same time. If this trend continues, we will be worried. I certainly don't want to start thinking "Ooh, Walter!" and she DEFINITELY doesn't want to start thinking "Ooh, Bryn!"

Thursday 20 September 2001

Up until 18 September, the house was not a student house. Despite the fact that, for the most part of the summer, there were two students living in it, they were not Being students, but A Worker and A(n Unsuccessful) Writer.

Now there are four students living in it. And the house has decided to act accordingly. When I got up on 19 September, Jo announced that the utility room roof had started leaking. Typically, our landpeople are away on holiday this week.

Living in a student house is weird. It is quite different from living with my family, which involves spending the entire day in my bedroom (or the study, if my computer is absent or broken, which is often), only taking breaks to get food from the kitchen and go to the bathroom.

It is quite different from living in a corridor, where my only real involvement with the other residents was that I shared a toilet and shower with them. (Note: by "shower sharing", I don't mean all seven of us trying to cram into the shower at once, interesting as Bryn is finding this image.)

It is quite different from unofficially living in a student house, where I spent the entire time in a bedroom, except to go to the bathroom and plunder Nick's videos from the living room.

And it is very different from living in The House Of A Pathologically Untidy Worker And A(n Unsuccessful) Writer.

No longer can I go to the toilet without having to shut the bathroom door. Even when I brush my teeth with the door open, my housemates utter an embarrassed "Oh!" on seeing me there. No longer can I dress without closing my bedroom door and no longer am I not just permitted but encouraged to walk around naked. Even in my nightie, I have to beware of its straps slipping from my shoulders, so as not to reveal more cleavage than anyone residing here wishes to see.

I have to remember to close my bedroom door if I wish to play music. I have to remember to turn the volume down on my computer if IMing after others have gone to bed, or its bleeps will keep them awake. I put the towels back on the rail after I have a shower. I hang my coat up, instead of dumping it on the sofa.

I eat from plates rather than a breadboard. I sit at the table, rather than the worktop. I even use coasters (but we've agreed that table mats are going too far). Brightly coloured bedclothes replace the horrible cream-with-brown-flowers-on bedspreads that once graced (well, cursed) all the bedrooms. No longer can Bryn and I Be Naughty in whichever one we feel like.

And, having discussed our tastes in just about everything else over the last year, now that we have a TV, for the first time, we have discovered how varied and conflicting our tastes in television programmes are. Last night, Soppygit sat in my room in a huff, because she wanted to watch "Ally McBeal" but Ibid wouldn't let her because "Porridge" was on. Jo likes football and I like evil quiz shows. Today I shall learn how to work the video machine.

Yesterday, Soppygit, Ibid and myself went to campus. I registered for the new academic year, picked up my loan cheque (it's for more than the last one, which is just as well), collected leaflets for Cinema 3, the sports centre and The Evil Venue, and investigated Keynes College. It has gone all scary and posh, like two Spice Girls. The uncomfortable cigarette-burned benches and vinyl chairs have been replaced by little café-like tables and armchairs. No! How can we hold The Pit in this horrifically salubrious environment? There is a video jukebox in Keynes Bar however: considering the turn for the worse that music on campus has recently taken, the range of songs is not bad! I also tried to work my timetable, but there were listings for every module under the sun, except two I'm doing this coming term.

In the afternoon, Soppygit and I went into town. I got a telephone extension cable (so we don't all have to invade Jo's room to talk on the phone; we can bash our heads on the underside of the stairs instead), some blank video cassettes (for I wish to go to the cinema while Buffy's on), an academic diary (the one the Institute Of Physics sent me is too fiddly) and some provisions. I investigated so-called permanent hair dye, because I have more roots than all the trees in the world put together, but when you read the instructions, it says, "Buy this product every 4-6 weeks to maintain your colour." Isn't that what one would call semi-permanent? When I next see a proper goth, I will ask what they do.

We went to the estate agents, to ask what to do about the hole in the roof. They said they'd be in touch later on that day. Not too surprisingly, they weren't. We can only pray for less rain until the landpeople return, but I'm not too hopeful. For the second day in a row, it poured down all the way home.

Today, I went to a Wetherspoon's. Grr! After all that excitement, I am not on the cover of Wetherspoon's News after all. All those who wore in armour are, but Anne and myself are not.

Oh well. That means I still have fourteen minutes and fifty nine seconds of fame ahead of me.

Saturday 22 September 2001

On Thursday evening I did something I had never done before. I went to the cinema alone.

I'd been to concerts alone. I'd flown alone. But in at least twelve years of cinema-going (probably more, but the first film I remember seeing there is "Back To The Future II"), each more avid than the last, I had never been there without another.

The unlikeliness of such an activity is widely agreed to. I seem to remember one online journal keeper making the same resolution every birthday - to go on her own - and never going through with it. I didn't have this on The List Of Things To Do Before I Die (currently the only thing on that is "Go to The Isle Of Man") - I like to have someone to discuss the film with afterwards - but either way, on Thursday night, my innocence was forever lost indeed. I wanted to see "Caravaggio" at Cinema 3, since Derek Jarman's biography interested me, and that's considered his masterpiece. They didn't sympathise enough to accompany me. I didn't let their lack of presence put me off going.

If anyone else has a burning desire to go to the cinema alone, don't bother. As an experience, it's over-rated. I didn't feel this huge flush of independence. I didn't feel I was anarchistically smashing the system of Attending Such Places Without A Companion. Besides, I wasn't the only one on my own. Probably because no fresher wanted to invite their corridor mates to see a film about a bisexual Italian 16th century painter, when they'd only known them for four days.

The film itself was fairly good. It was tense, due to its sudden acts of violence and dodginess, and the continual appearance of a knife. Getting to see a young floppy haired Dexter Fletcher (of Lock Stock fame) was pleasing; Robbie Coltrane was great. That said, I couldn't see the point of the anachronisms (including a pocket calculator) or why the cast spoke in their own accents: Cockney and Scottish for the most part.

I went to the campus shop to buy a toothbrush to leave at Bryn's house. I found a black one! Most excellent! (Well, it's mostly white, with black panels on it, but it's the most gothic toothbrush I've come across so far.) Just before I paid for it, Bryn called, and we arranged to meet, so he could direct me to his house.

When we got there, we packed his stuff away a bit, then tried to go for a drink. But Woody's, the pub in Park Wood (which isn't owned by the protagonist of "Toy Story" as far as I know), was heaving. The patrons weren't, thankfully, but it was still off-putting enough for us to go to Keynes Bar instead. That was also packed, so we decided we couldn't be bothered, and went to the computer room instead. I felt so old! This time last year, I would have gone in without caring, had a vodka and orange, and played on the "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" machine with a stranger, and probably bought a Venue ticket that someone was flogging. Oh well.

We went back to Park Wood and rented "Austin Powers". I'd seen "Austin Powers 2" twice: when it came out at the cinema and when I went to stay with Twi last summer. But never the first one. Twi had it, but insisted on watching 2 instead, because Scott Evil looked better in it. She was right, but the first was still rather good. In a bad sort of way.

That night, I had a very strange dream. My mother and I went into the campus shop, except it looked nothing like it usually does. Bryn's ex was working there. As we did the transaction, the ex started telling us her life story. She mentioned that she was bi, and as we left the shop, Mum professed an interest in her!

I woke up then, convinced that I'd slept with a re-incarnation of The Marquis de Sade on a number of occasions last October. I hadn't thought about it since then as it was too horrific to contemplate. After about a month, though, I'd refused his advances.

I became a bit more doubtful of this as the minutes passed, because I remembered him having the bedroom next to Bryn's, and in reality that was Tasha's. However, I'd hardly written any journal entries in October - and I don't write down everything I do anyway - so how could I prove I hadn't?

Fortunately, I found this notion ridiculous after a few hours. It seemed so real for a while, though.

Bryn and I hung around on campus for a few hours, doing various boring necessary tasks. We tidied his room up a bit, then went to a rock society meeting. The outcome was Bryn and John deciding to find out the dimensions of the various PAs from Socodi Music. (The only time I will allow Bryn to enter a shop selling musical instruments is when he's acquiring or investigating equipment for The Pit.) So they and I and Chris (not That One, but John's Friend With Whom Bryn Once Tried To Set Up Soppygit) piled into John's dodgy Seat Marbella, complaining about lack of foot space, and we travelled into town.

We went to Socodi Music; then Bryn went to Alpha Computers, where he bought a bunch of computer parts. Since he had trouble getting the case into the car boot, we weren't too hopeful about getting a 4000W PA in there. We discussed other possible methods of transport. "I could ask my neighbours really really nicely if I could borrow their van. But I've been playing loud rock music at them." "Have they complained?" "Yes." "That's nothing. The people who live two houses away complained about mine." Also: "I know someone who's a bus driver."

We set off back to campus. "Can we have some music on?" Bryn asked.

"We could, but the engine won't run if we do," John said. "You think I'm joking," he added.

He also warned us we'd all have to get out and walk as he drove up St Stephen's Hill. As it was, he made it, but only because the road was clear and he broke the speed limit. Remind me not to travel in that car again.

Bryn got progressively more and more annoyed with his old computer, before going to the cinema with me. We met Ibid there and saw "Aimée & Jaguar". It was quite good, but I think I'm going to have to stop going to arthouse flicks for a while. I saw virtually every mainstream film that came out over the summer and nothing intellectual, and I've developed a need for action and an allergy to subtitles.

Afterwards, I insisted that Bryn got something to eat, because he's always complaining about me not feeding him properly and all he'd had to eat that day was one and a half Twix bars. But he protested that he was broke. "Bryn!" I cried. "You've just spent three hundred pounds on computer parts! You can afford a sandwich!" (But they were all broken due to John's driving, so don't steal them. Well, they're probably not, but we don't know yet, and in any case, I feel obliged to include these warnings.) In the end, he bought a chicken tikka wrap, which does not a sustenance-filled day make, but he was still alive last time I checked.

There was to be a techno / drum and bass / hip hop party in Eliot Dining Hall, from eight till one. Bryn had been to one before, and said it was quite good. Besides, it was free, so we decided to look in on it. But at nine o'clock, all the lights were on, no one was there, and jazz music was playing! As we surveyed the scene, some long-haired dude came up behind us and asked, "Is this the party?"

"Supposedly, but it doesn't look like it," I replied. We all left after a few more seconds.

Ibid went home; Bryn and I returned to Park Wood discussing the film we'd just seen. We discovered that we share the habit of never being able to remember the names of characters in films. Of the three main characters, we could only recall the name of one of them. We kept remembering then instantly forgetting another's. And the third, I didn't remember until twenty four hours later.

We rented "Loser". It wasn't what I was expecting; you can't read the blurbs on the videos from the Park Wood dispenser, but the title and its lettering meant one thing: High School Comedy. But it wasn't; more a rather serious tale of students' financial hardship. (Rather too close to home for comfort.) It wasn't bad, but why were all the frat boys punks?

The heroine's name got mentioned repetitively, but afterwards, neither of us could remember it. It finally came to us an hour later.

We had trouble getting to sleep and the next day, I had to get up at 7 to go home: I needed to have a shower, but I was to attend Fresher's Fair, which started at 10.

I managed to find my way home without too much difficulty, despite the extreme confuzzlement Park Wood causes me. Getting into the house was another matter; no matter how I turned the keys I couldn't get in. Luckily, when I rang the doorbell, Jo was already awake.

I spent most of the next three hours trying to take off my purple nail polish, which, despite its tendency to chip like crazy, was unwilling to be removed. Then I painted my nails black (they looked very boring; I like to do two colours at once), despite the fact that I was going to wear gloves to Fresher's Fair. However, it turned out to be useful later on. On the pub crawl, I didn't wear the gloves, and I was glad to have black nails like everyone else.

Saturday 22 September 2001

Some bloke (on the effects of pot): I drew this picture . . . and I haven't a clue what it was.

Alex: My girlfriend's f***ing in London.
Zed: F***ing in London, or just in London?

For Freshers' Fair, I offered to help promote the rock society. I was thinking of wearing my Cure shirt, PVC mini skirt, fishnet tights and hooker coat. Goffic, but not over the top. However, various members of the committee declared their intention to dress as stand-out-ishly as we could, so I went for my long crushed velvet skirt, beyond-elbow-length PVC gloves and basque instead.

This was the first time I'd worn the latter garment. It is a very contradictory object. It would be a fine item to wear if you didn't have a boyfriend and wanted one, because it certainly draws attention to your mammary glands. However, in order to actually wear one, you have to have a boyfriend to do up the zip. Since Bryn had to go to Fresher's Fair before me (presidental duties et al), I got Soppygit to do the honours, but I was hesitant to ask her to help re-tying the laces at the front.

Ibid dressed as hippie-ishly as possible (she has short hair, though), and after putting on my leather jacket and checking my nipples weren't showing for the twentieth time, we set off to campus. We got to the sports hall . . . and I suddenly realised that my wallet was missing.

Argh! In the normal run of things, it has all manner of goodness in it. I can win any Whose Got The Most Cards In Their Wallet competition hands down. (I have twenty three, most of them completely useless, like "Admission to Cambridge Botanical Gardens" and one providing a number to call if you want "Farming Help".) It contains my keys, birth control pills, stamps, some really bad passport photos of me and some remarkably good passport photos of Bryn (for practical not soppy reasons, I assure you). There's usually some old train and tube tickets in there, which have great sentimental value. And that day, for once, it was loaded with booty, as they say in "Monkey Island". About an eighth of all the money I have in the world, in fact. (Not anymore though, just in case you're thinking about stealing it.)

As previously mentioned in The Shallow And The Plain Ridiculous (otherwise known as Zed's journal), Anna The Goth lost her wallet twice in the course of a month. And now, on the first day that I had ever dressed like Anna The Goth, I had lost mine.

However, Ibid lent me the coinage to join the rock society. I added my name to the radio mailing list. Other than that, there none of the other societies interested me, although I told the re-enactment types I'd think about joining next year and accepted Vicky's plentiful Socialist Worker leaflets. Must work up courage to talk to Student Union about starting a literary magazine. As far as freebies went, I got a vicious looking hairbrush, an evil woman's magazine, a load of pens that fell apart when I tried to use them and a gonk. Oh well, one worthwhile acquisition!

Ibid and I stood in the entrance of the sports hall. We didn't have many fliers to hand out, so we had to give them only to people who looked likely to join. Bryn tried to stick them in my cleavage, so I could invite people to take one from there, but I refused. Freshers are an easily scared bunch: Sleeve's friends, who I met on Tuesday, have already professed their fear of The Weird Sisters.

It was a thankless task, but every quarter of an hour or so, someone in a Deftones shirt or dog collar would come along, and I'd drag them over the rock society table. By the end of the day, 144 people had joined the mailing list. (How very mathematical!) And some re-enactors told me they liked "My Boyfriend's A Re-Enactor" and many people liked the basque apparently, so I was happy.

After five hours of this, I met up with Soppygit, Jo and The Sleeve and we hung out for a bit. Soppygit wasn't in a fantastic mood, having just been ignored by both Mr Street and Mr Dover, but Sleeve revealed some news which cheered her up immensely, but is terrible for me. Worries and hopes that he might have finished at UKC have been in vain: Walter Winterbottom is back! Aaagh! Further puke-inducing declarations of soppiness from her direction loom!

Soppygit suggested going to Darwin College Bar so Sleeve could get coffee, as he [hart]s it. I moaned, because it was a ten minute walk and my feet were aching and there'd be a rock society pub crawl that night, but we went. When we got there, Sleeve decided he didn't want coffee after all, and none of the rest of us drank it. Bryn called me, to say that the Fresher's Fair was over and he was in Park Wood. I summoned him to distant Darwin, but by the time he arrived, Soppygit and Jo had decided to go home.

Sleeve went to take his Tippexed badged backpack home before the pub crawl; Bryn and I went to his place. I was getting very worried about the wallet's disappearance. I'd asked Ibid to check for it at home and call me if she found it, but there'd been no word. On the way to Park Wood, I encountered a friend of Bryn's who'd also lost his wallet, and apparently he wasn't the only one. Given the confusion surrounding Fresher's Fair and the number of people attending, pick-pocketting would be easy.

£50. (Now you know my bank balance.) A debit card, a rail card, a travel card, a Slimelight membership card, Mykos knows what else . . .

Bryn and I listened to "Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban". The series just gets dodgier and dodgier. Harry's broom got blown off! (As for The Whomping Willow . . . and try replacing every "snitch" with a "snatch".) We tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw people in black hoodies and baggy ragged jeans on the inside of my eyelids. However, Ibid called, at last, to report that she'd found my wallet! It had been on my desk. While fretting about my cleavage, I had clearly neglected to check that I had it. Bryn reckons I should stick it there in the future, but I think I'll give that idea a miss.

Bryn and I went to Keynes Bar and met up with Ibid and Sleeve and all manner of other rock society types, old and new: about thirty in total. As we left the college, we made a terrific procession! (Bit like a funeral march, really, given the colour of our clothes. Except spirits were rather high.) And when we got round to the pub-entering bit, we formed half the clientele of any given establishment.

We set off for town. Leaving Keynes, Bryn noticed a bus departing and yelled "Run!" I did, and my breasts decided to emancipate themselves from the restrains of my basque. Luckily, only Bryn saw, before rescue was performed. Right, I'm definitely not wearing it to The Pit: headbanging would prove severely embarrassing. As it was, the bus got away without us, so we walked.

We went to The Monument, I think, where Ibid and I stood by the bar and talked to this couple. The girl was wearing a spiky and an ankh, like I do, which I pointed out, and explained my reasons for doing this. Hers were exactly the same: her boyfriend had given her the ankh. Weird.

After half an hour, Bryn yelled "ROCK SOCIETYYYYY! THIRTY SECOOOONDS!" and we left. In The Westgate Inn, Ibid spotted some seats, so we took them and sat on our own for half an hour. This time, on the count of three, five people shouted: "ROCK SOCIETYYYYYY!" As if Bryn alone wasn't loud enough . . .

We went to The Hobgoblin, which is a wondrous place during the day, but as it was The Saturday Night Of Fresher's Week, it was so crowded that half of us decided to stand out in the street. One guy was wearing white trousers; people constantly teased him about this. It was the penguin-related slogan on his shirt I objected to, though, marking him clearly as a Linux fanatic. (Sez the girl who owns an Acorn t-shirt.) Also, it was here I discovered that others shared my dilemma: "I want to be in a band, and I write song lyrics, but I can't sing and I can't play anything." Perhaps we can start a band of lyricists?

The Cherry Tree was just as crowded, so again, I remained outside. It was all very strange. If you were drinking, you weren't allowed to stand more than two feet away from the pub. Some bloke working there told me to get closer. "I'm not drinking," I pointed out, which should have been obvious due to the lack of glass, can or plastic Sidekick container in my hand. (Alcohol only makes me melancholy. I was having a fine time without it.) Some bloke I didn't know gave me a load of two pence coins for no discernible reason. A guy who was in several of my classes last year appeared and talked to me, which he's only done once before. And Alex, a guy who I spoke to at the Fresher's Fair about Slipknot and Rammstein and ended up talking to a lot on the pub crawl about Mykos Knows What gave me all his one pences. Since I only drank water (which is free), it was a very profitable night.

Finally, we headed for The Canterbury Tales, which used to be one of our favourite pubs, since there was never anyone in there, it had comfy sofas and it stayed open as long as we kept drinking. However, there was a live band playing and it was immensely crowded, so once again, Ibid, Alex and myself took to the street. Pub crawl? Road crawl more like.

Then I went home. At the start of the night, my throat had felt slightly sore. Screaming "TEN MINUUUUUTES!" didn't help it (I just wanted to see how loud I could go) and by the time I got home, it was blocked. I liked the way my voice sounded, though.

Bryn and I talked for ages (not for any particular reason, but it had been exactly a year since we first met). Then I tried to sleep, but I was hallucinating at a rate of about thirty images a minute. Here are the first three:

1. A Cradle Of Filth hoodie. It was black, with block capitals outlined in grey and partially filled in by orange flames spelling the band name, in the shape of a flattened rainbow.
2. Two guys, sitting on a small platform, with their backs to me. They were shirtless, and an inch of their boxer shorts was visible: both checkered, but in different colours.
3. A woolen hat, with a bell attached to the top.

I eventually blocked these pictures out though and slept.

When I woke up the following morning, one of my nostrils was blocked too. Fresher's Flu est arrivé. Quel yoj.

In happier news, having cancelled the last concert entirely, Rammstein are now playing in December. But they've put the ticket prices up, the evil geens! However, since I'm taking Bryn to see VNV Nation, Covenant and The Cardiacs this term, he has agreed to buying these tickets. Yay!

Saturday 29 September 2001

28 September 2000 was the day I became friends with Bryn. I think there must be something about 28 September, because last night, at The Pit, Soppygit got chatted up by a bloke, who she took a liking to. They're not together yet, but they're meeting later today and it's looking hopeful. I am glad, for he appears to be cool (he approved of my boots and stripy tights and has good taste in music) and at long last the Walter Winterbottom infatuation will come to an end.

But darn it! Everyone is being soppy! (Except Ibid, thank Mykos.) Sleeve has recently found a girlfriend and Stef and Dale (two goffs I know) got together a few days ago and are so ridiculously in wuv (or wust, at any rate) they spent Wednesday morning in excruciating agony caused by wearing each other's shoes, despite having different-sized feet.

But The Pit was enyojable. Bryn, who will probably never believe music can be too loud, convinced the rest of the rock soc committee to use a 4000W PA, as opposed to the 2000W one they normally use, and it sounded fantastic. Good stuff was played, including a funchie metal version of "Panic" by The Smiths. Afterwards, I tried to help clean up but ended up talking to Deaf and Stale instead. Dale was dressed in women's clothes (we'll presume Stef's, but you never can tell) which made him look so feminine that he got hit on by a bloke. He carried a wand and went into the women's toilets (obviously, because he covered the floor in purple feathers).

At 1, I lugged the smoke machine back to Bryn's house, fell asleep to Harry Potter, and was woken by the alarm at 7.30. Ow. I spent the next two hours sitting on the stairs in Keynes College looking after the equipment while Bryn, Nick and John shifted it, while talking to some bloke who didn't want to leave the building until it had stopped raining. The volume of The Pit had clearly cracked open the heavens.

Later

When I got back from Safeway's, there was an alien black hoodie lying on the sofa. Soppygit and The Bloke (whose name is Mark, but Ibid and I have, of course, christened him Mr Erpen) were in the kitchen. I went through to the utility room to put my bread in the freezer. When I got back, they were kissing.

"Get a room," I said. "The kitchen doesn't count as a room," I added, when Soppygit tried to justify herself. So they are now in Soppygit's room. My room is next door to it. I am playing industrial music very loudly.

Sunday 30 September 2001

Oh, I am a foolface. On Saturday, I went home, leaving half my worldly goods at Bryn's house. Today, I have come to campus, leaving the other half of my worldly goods at my place. Since it is raining, and the walk there and back is incredibly boring, I'll just have to go without them until tomorrow, and buy some more file paper at the campus shop, and wear the same underwear and socks for two days running. Oh well; my forced lack of hygiene means less laundry to do.