My opinion of today differed rather dramatically from that expressed by The Smashing Pumpkins, for it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the greatest day of my life.

Firstly, I got woken up prematurely by a giant bee-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh-buh, gi-ant bee! For the first time in my ten months in this house, I opened my bedroom window, ushered it outside, and shut the window again.

Then I had to wait for a delivery company to bring me some boxes. See, when I came to Canterbury this academic year, I brought my numerous belongings in a van normally used to deliver pianos. This was rather more spacious than my parents' landrover, in which my possessions are to be taken home, along with the entirety of my immediate family. Consequently, we decided it made sense for me to send most of my possessions home. But since I had no boxes in which to place them, my parents would send some to me first.

When the boxes (seven thereof) arrived, I spent an unpleasant two hours filling them. These hours were unpleasant, because not only did I stub my toe on a vicious wheeled suitcase in the process, but I had the hideous task of deciding which clothes I should wrap around my various items of electrical equipment. i.e. working out which ones wouldn't I want to wear in the next eight days. Well, really, how should I know a thing like that?

After that, I went to campus, to go online. This is something I do regularly, and I usually escape from the activity unscathed, but tonight's experience left me with the urge to start supporting Amnesty International. For now I really do know what torture feels like.

See, I had the misfortune of stumbling across previously-undiscovered online journals whose authors put an effort into what they're writing! They provide character descriptions and attempt to make their entries into little stories and everything!

Was this not a good thing? I hear you ask. Oh, yes, the event in itself was favourable: for six hours, I avidly read these journals, unable to tear myself away from the screen. Unfortunately, two floors below me, a disco began.

Now I am somewhat familiar with this brand of cruelty, for such events, during term time, were held in this location on a weekly basis, often disrupting my surfing. However, I lived to tell the tale, for the target audience of those were Brits. The target audience of this one, however, were the foreign summer school students who have recently invaded campus. And, as you might have noticed, the only music that gets exported to foreign parts is the really popular stuff. And consequently, commonly, the truly terrible stuff.

There was "Witchdoctor" (which I could just about cope with, as it had been stuck in my head anyway). There was "Macarena", which doesn't quite give me homicidal tedencies, due to me luckily being in Spain, of all places, at the time of its release, and consequently hearing it rather less often than everyone stuck in Britain. To my horror, there was The Venga Bois. I keep managing to erase their existence from my memory, but no, they keep coming back to bother me! And then there was "YMCA".

Twice.

Broken out in boils and shaking all over, I finally left and went to bed, where I dreamed that I was reading the website of Maddy Prior's half sister (Maddy Prior being Steeleye Span's former singer and a family friend) which described her depressed dysfunctional family. They lived in a town south east of London, where the pub doors had rusty nails instead of door handles and to touch one was likely to give you three sexually transmitted diseases. Then I was shopping with my mother, who requested that I bought her a black teddy bear that cost £55. I agreed happily, but as soon as we left the shop, she started shouting at me, because, thanks to my bad influence, my brother had turned gay.

I was actually quite happy when I was woken up prematurely by a giant bee.

Wednesday 2 July 2003

Today I had to stay at home, waiting for the parcel delivery service to collect the boxes. This was actually something of a good thing, because I'd deliberately packed all the things that tend to distract me from My True Goal In Life (novel publication), so I had no choice but to write - and during my wait I ended up penning (well, keying) some 9000 words. Unfortunately, during the wait, I completely ran out of food, and so spent a lot of time hunting through my bedroom for a forgotten chocolate bar, but to no avail.

Did the delivery bloke turn up in the end? Oh no.

I lost hope at 6.30, and, weak with hunger, I walked to campus and bought food. But I couldn't go home without going online first. So I did, for the usual few hours. I got home at 9.45, made some toast, and I'd taken two bites when my phone rang. Twas Soppygit (who moved out a few weeks ago).

Now it was good to hear from her, but our conversation lasted until 10.45. At this point, I knew I hadn't long before my parents went to bed, so before eating, I phoned them, to tell them of the lack of parcel collection. By the time I got off the phone, it was 11.15.

It is a Very Good Thing that my house has recently, randomly acquired a microwave.

Saturday 5 July 2003

I live in a shared student house. When I opened the fridge today, I noticed a can labelled "Evaporated Milk". What's the idea here? "Do you want to eat less, but stay healthy? Evaporated Milk is the solution! Simply open the can, unleashing milk particles into the atmosphere, and you can inhale calciumy goodness all day long!"

There's also a bottle of "Extra Virgin Olive Oil" on the worktop. But we don't have any "Virgin Olive Oil". Or is it made out of Extra Virgins? What is an extra virgin? An understudy for Mary in a nativity play, or is it possible to have inverse-sex (1/sex? xes?) which makes one more virginal?

Ah, life's great mysteries grow more numerous with each passing day.

Monday 7 July 2003

I didn't intend to stay on campus until 4.30 last night, but an unfortunate event prompted me to. On my way home, the sky was light. It was quite pleasant, in a disturbing kind of way, and it seemed fitting, since it was my final night, of hundreds of nights, in Eliot College computer room. Unfortunately, since I had beeploads to do today, I had to set my alarm for 8.30, and sleep didn't come easy, for my room had already been invaded by a giant bee when I hit the sack (as has happened, without fail, for the last six mornings).

This morning, I went into Canterbury, to buy food and cleaning products and send back the last batch of the Babysitters Club books my online friend Hazel lent to me. (I read them solely for nostalgia and to see what happened to the characters, you understand.) Unfortunately, upon reaching the post office, I realised that I didn't have her address with me and couldn't remember it.

More happily, though, while walking down the street, I exchanged looks of "Ooh! Someone else with New Rock boots!" with a couple of goths I don't think I've ever seen before. Ha ha, our forces are increasing!

I checked my bank balance and was most distraught, but I also felt the need to spend money in Local Hero Records, before I left Canterbury. It opened a few months ago, and despite having been there a number of times, I'd yet to buy anything. It is a strange place: a huge room, up a flight of stairs, that contains a sparse shop and a café, where bands play fairly frequently, but it looks and feels more like a museum. Nevertheless, it's quite pleasant and the idea behind it is very virtuous: its main aim is to sell the CDs and increase the gigging opportunites of local bands. I felt the need to make a purchase there for two reasons. 1) To make a final gesture of support for my local rock scene. 2) Because it also sells vinyl. Lots of vinyl. Including lots of new wave and new romantic singles. And since my vinyl collection is pitiful ("Blue Monday" and "Last Night A DJ Saved My Life" on funchie 12" singles and a bunch of fifties compilation albums, all of which my Dad gave me), I decided to take the opportunity to make my vinyl fantasies a reality. (The ones involving the sort of vinyl with music on it, anyway.)

And so, for £24, I bought:

The Buzzcocks - "Promises / Lipstick"
The Cure - "The Lovecats"
Duran Duran - "Hungry Like The Wolf"
Duran Duran - "Save A Prayer"
The Members - "The Sound Of The Suburbs"
Siouxsie And The Banshees - "Happy House"
The Stranglers - "Walk On By"
Ultravox - "Vienna"

Sadly, almost-instant karma got me. Upon arriving home, I was just having a drink when suddenly there was a sharp stinging sensation on my leg. For the first time in my life, I'd been stung by a bee or wasp and in a most underhanded manner! I didn't hear it coming, I didn't see it or feel it, and it got me just inside one of my boots, through my tights.

That's the last time I'm being nice and encouraging them to fly out of my window again! Next time I see one, it will die! Oh, wahahaha!

Tonight was my last rock night at The Beercart Arms in the forseeable future. Since November 2001, it's been on every Monday, and I've attended 95% of the time, my only absences being due to severe illness, extreme fatigue, excessive workloads and being a few hundred miles away at the time.

It's typically been the highlight of my week. The music has, in general, appealed to me: though I don't care to allow too much nu and thrash metal into my bedroom, it's generally good to get down (with the sick-ness!) to. Further, the vast majority of my friends go there (which might have something to do with the fact that I met quite a lot of them there, or at other rock events), so the company's usually good.

I am not someone who is overwhelmed with conflicting feelings during Significant Events. The springs in my boots got worn down from excess bouncing, projectile people twice my weight were shoved back into the moshpit, random beep happened (including someone telling me he'd seen me in Camden a week ago - either I have a doppleganger or I can sleepwalk *really* well), goodbyes were said (many people successfully managed to suppress the urge to punch the air and say, "Yesss! We shall be shot of thee and thy garish tights!" and instead put on the shocked and disappointed act), hugs and numbers were exchanged, and promises to keep in touch and come back and visit as soon as possible, cash permitting, were made. I didn't get to say goodbye to everyone, but I did have the chance to say it to people I hadn't expected to get to speak to. No feelings of despair or even disbelief were entered into at any point.

However, since This Is A Historic Occasion, I suppose some navel-gazing should be entered into. *lifts t-shirt* Hmm. It looks rather non-plussed. I wonder why the expression "navel-gazing" came to mean "being reflective" anyway? Pregnant women may well have cause to reflect upon examining their midriffs, I would have thought, but why has it come to apply to us empty-ovened mortals? If staring into a crystal ball reveals your future, does staring at your belly button reveal your present? If eyes are the window into the soul, is the navel a window into the gut, through which you can see your gut reactions?

Anyway, if my navel wishes to reveal anything, then I'm obviously not well enough trained in the art of navel-reading. Instead, here is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: my thoughts.

I am in two minds about leaving, though. On one hand, I've been in Canterbury for three years. It's ok, but lately, it's begun to feel stifling. I've seen it, done it (the Canterbury experience, that is, not the population of Canterbury), amassed all the decent t-shirts in its alternative boutiques. Now I want to see somewhere else, somewhere I think I'll like more.

On the other hand, I also feel like I'm leaving just as things are starting to get interesting. Partly, on the rock front: the nights we had during my time final year here were more than enough, but now there's gigs at Local Hero Records, there's the new monthly indie night, I imagine indie night at The Venue is going to be better this academic year, the good people of Eliot JCC are starting a weekly rock night on campus, and The Canterbury Goths are aiming to get a goth night started. I mean it more on the people front, though: there are a lot of people I'd have liked to get to know better - and I say that of people I met three weeks ago, people I met three months ago, and people I met three years ago. While I don't think I could have happily stayed here another year, I could have used a few more months, and I'll take into consideration the possibility of moving back here, maybe to do a Ph.D, after my year in York.

But we'll see. Onwards!

Tuesday 8 July 2003

Today, I graduated.

Since I've worn New Rock boots for the majority of my undergraduate life, and, surely, everyone recognises me as "her with the crazy boots with springs in them", I wanted to wear them to my graduation ceremony. However, the instructions I received about it insisted on formal dress and no costume of any sort. So instead, I had to wear Evil Shoes Of Dume. The only smart flat-soled shoes I own are my olde skool ones, which, according to my Mum look too much like school shoes, so high heels it was. I never wore high-heeled shoes until I was seventeen, and, on account of the pain caused by such an act (the fact that, even if my feet could talk, they'd have no arches to speak of probably doesn't help), I've barely worn them since.

In the morning, there was a prize-giving event for us Mathematicians. Since I won an award, I felt I should attend, but it ended up involving hanging around with my family for half an hour before I received it. I couldn't sit down, since there was nowhere to sit except the grass, and I thought that unwise since I was wearing my suit. So, instead, my feet grew excruciatingly sore. By the time I embarked on the ten-minute walk back to my house, I was in so much paaane that I couldn't go on; Dad went on ahead, collected the car and picked me up.

(And the prize was only £80 too! I'm not complaining, but in first year, I won an award for doing sickeningly well in my exams, and that was £80, so I would have thought that getting the best second-and-third-year exam results in the entire science faculty would earn me at least a little more?)

Dad drove me home, where I put some socks on over my tights to ease the paaane. Then I was dropped off outside Canterbury Cathedral, where the actual degree-giving ceremony was to be held. Since it is an enormous place, I embarked on a long and mostly superfluous journey to the place where I'd be robed, hooded and hatted.

I am in two minds as to whether to attend my next graduation ceremony, when I complete my postgraduate degree. On one hand, people with postgraduate degrees get to wear funchie hats. On the other, the ceremony was very boring (especially the part where ages was spent rambling about this woman who was being given an honorary degree, even though she's the most sickening person in existence - she apparently works eighty-hour weeks and has written the most popular text books ever - and has consequently already received several million accolades), I was always scared my gown would fall off, and, of course, the feet thing. There was no way I could make it back to the car park, so once again, I had to wait for my Dad to collect me, while I stood in my socks.

The ceremony left me profoundly unmoved: I felt no sense of accomplishment (probably due to finding out my degree result over a month earlier) or joy or fear in moving on (probably because the next two months of my life are destined to be incredibly boring, but more student life lies beyond them). However, shortly after the ceremony, I felt very glad to be escaping Canterbury . . . on account of my Dad accidentally driving down the busy fully-pedestrianised high street.

Wednesday 9 July 2003

I dreamed I was looking at cash machines to see if anyone had accidentally left their card in them. If they had, I took some money out of their account.

This gives a pretty good idea as to my current financial situation.

House relatively clean, official piece of paper on its way to York and rock society bubble machine handed over to Sarah The Vice Goth, next year's vice president, the journey home began. Not only was it four-hundred miles long, but Dad drove to Upper Heyford, a village in Oxfordshire, because he's currently trying to build a harpsicord and there's a shop there that sells them. The village was very picturesque - there were actually houses with thatched roofs - but it was tiny and there was nothing to do there. So me, Mum and Noj waited in the car, finding strange place names in the road atlas and ridding ourselves of hundreds of Ickle Black Insects which invaded. When Dad finally emerged from the shop, he was overyojed. "I've learnt so much in five minutes!" he exclaimed. "Well, it felt like five minutes, anyway." It had actually been two hours.

But, unfortunately for you, I got home in the end.

Thursday 10 July 2003

I spent today unpacking 20% of my belongings, throwing some old stoof away, working on my website and talking on the phone for about three hours in total. In the evening, my parents took me to see an adaptation of "Twelfth Night", as performed by the top class of Brampton Junior School. The acting was mostly brillig, but I thought the script was rather inferior to that of the other Brampton Junior School play I've seen (which was entitled "One Man And His Alien" and had a song which was seemingly entitled "Ooh, I'm An Alien").

Friday 11 July 2003

Today, I worked at my parents' shop for eight and a half hours. Most of it was spent filing, so it was Very Boring, especially since I've needlessly been banned from playing Freecell while I await guidance, since the computer system was recently attacked by a Virus Of Dume and I can't convince my parents that playing Freecell is completely harmless. But I am £38.25 richer as a result.

Saturday 12 July 2003

My old school is cursed! On 9 March 1998, a girl in the year above mine died. And today I learnt that exactly five years later, on 9 March 2003, one of the teachers died!

Tuesday 22 July 2003

Many moons ago, I organised a live rock event. On the night, so all the bands would be able to identify me, I gaffa-taped the letter "Z" to my skirt. I spent most of today picking it off.

Thursday 24 July 2003

Oh yes! Ohhhhh yes! Oh yesssss!

Not only are Iron Maiden finally touring in December - but! I actually know about it before tickets go on sale! Which means I should be able to get one!

YESSSSSSSSS!

Today, I discovered that my parents shop sells "confetti plectrums". I wonder, are they plectrums decorated with confetti-like patterns, or are they plectrums designed specifically to be thrown off stage during gigs (i.e. more streamlined, for further flight, and with softer edges, so as to reduce the risk of hurting people)?

Woe! The comments Livejournal send me have lost their appealing lilac background! I suppose they're trying to be more unisex by having a white one instead, but it's both clinical and unsettling. Alas!

Friday 25 July 2003

My Dad has just hired a piano to Dionne Warwick.

My Mum has just counted negative fourteen manuscript books.

She is a lot more proud of her accomplishment than he is of his.

Saturday 26 July 2003

Dad commissioned me to write a couple of verses for a punk song in "Vamppower". So I did and he liked them. So w00t! My name shalt be in print in a new circle and when Vamppower becomes a hit West End musical, I can claim I played a part in its creation!

Tuesday 29 July 2003

I've got a ticket for Iron Maiden, baby! w00t!

But grr! Apparently Motorhead are supporting on the US leg of the tour, but I don't think they are in Britain. I wanted to see them separately, but I can't get home from Newcastle that night and I'm not convinced Leeds Student Union is a venue worthy of paying over £20 to go to. Oh well, the support should be someone good.