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Wednesday 3.4.02 | Very limited access to email in the past week has meant that I haven't been able to post anything on here that I'd like to, but more annoyingly and alarmingly, it means that my inbox has raged out of control. However, in that week (now that I have ploughed my way through the slag-heap of general rubbish, urgent things about this and that and various other bits of crap,) I was sent some really interesting stuff including this clock and a simulator to run London. As for the last few days, it's been strange. Bits have been manic, and bits utterly and lazily laid-back. Monday night was clubbing (again, I know), Tuesday was recovering, and today is computing. I have done some work, but I have also been lazy. I have panicked a little because the UCL Euroconference is next week, and I have also reasoned that I can blag it. I have gossiped far too much to far too many people, but at the same time some of it was necessary from keeping me going up the wall. An interesting few days, then. Friday 5.4.02 My phone tells me that, since I started using it, I have spent 61 hours gassing into its little holes (so to speak.) To think what I could have done with that time rather than frying my brain whilst gossiping is mind-boggling. It also makes me feel incredibly miserly (if not popular), because of those phonecalls, four and a half hours worth were made by me. The rest was people calling me. It's amazing how life can seem when you increase proportions. I am such a gasbag. Talking of producing lots of crap, I have also just -mistakenly- printed about 80 pages of statistics about the European Court of Justice. No questions as to what I'll be doing this weekend, then... Sunday 7.4.02 I seem to remember sometime last week writing about my sublime joy at discovering some stuff in Michelle's music collection that I actually liked. Last night, she lent me Bon Jovi's superb Crossroad album, along with the splendidly crap greatest hits of Roxette, together with East 17's greatest hits (fuuuuuck, did that take me back years! I felt almost young again) and other bits that I am enjoying listening to. So thank you, Mich, for increasing my aural pleasure (perhaps not a phrase to be read out loud to one's mother) severalfold. Looking forward to properly acquainting you with the world of trash and cheese when I next go clubbing. Monday 8.4.02 Every time I think about what I'm going to have to achieve in the next week, and then in the next month, and then in the next year, instead of panicking or stressing or sitting down and working, I burst into fits of giggles and sit there, repeating 'I'm so fucked' to myself. This can't be a healthy attitude, and it means I am going to do my absolute utmost to blag everything, when I should be studiously and calmly studying. Tuesday 9.4.02 Congratulations and much journalistic credit to the Guardian newspaper this morning - not only did they actually report some news (rather than the other scandal-rags that have been obsessed with the 'Old lady dies in her sleep' theme for more than a week now) therefore actually providing something to read over my Weetabix, but much more edifyingly, they printed Andrew Motion's tribute to the Queen Mum. Now, those who have read my attempts at poetry will confirm that I'm no Shakespeare, but honestly - it was dire. Pure, unmitigated crap. It goes something like So you died you were old in the slipstream of life no more - it's just shit beyond belief. And the other thing which vaguely amused me, walking past the enormous queue of people on the south bank yesterday who were going to wait for the for the next few years to look at a wooden box in a room, was the thought that (I am willing to place bet on this, redeemable in the afterlife, by the way) Her Maj is currently sitting in the celestial pub, downing her first or second pint of gin, and quietly giggling at everyone waiting hours to see her coffin. I mean what the bloody hell is the point? I don't wish to sound unpatriotic here (although I am - shit country that Britain is), but I, along with the vast majority of people in that queue, are not able to pay last respects to the Queen Mum, because I never met her. I didn't know her, and am therefore unable to grieve at her death. This collective outpouring of grief by the tabloids (and here I am advocating including the Telegraph and the Times in this category from now on - bin-liners that they deserve to be) is, in my view, utterly tasteless. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure the old dear was lovely. Really I do. But that doesn't mean I'm sad to see her go.
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