I don't like needles.  At all.  Contrary to several things I say I don't like, needles make me want to retch, and close my eyes and block everything out, and cover my inner wrists, and just get as far away as I can possibly get.  This includes horrible horrible chemicals on television programmes, and reading passages in books about teenage heroin addicts being reformed by misuse of hypodermics - even the word "hypodermic" makes me want to screw my eyes shut and curl up - and especially, especially, giving blood in any way, shape or form.  I know that's bad.  Like I consider it my duty to vote, I'd really like to give blood.  It's not even the blood that worries me, not in itself - I mean this is pathetic, isn't it, I'm relatively alright with blood and things and pain generally I can manage with so what is it about needles that is so toe-curlingly horrible?

 

So that's a bit of a dilemma then.

 

If anyone's watching Torchwood, I don't know about you but- I'm shocked.  Also, there aren't too many situations in which it is appropriate to shout WAAARGH!  THE WEEVIL'S GOT HIS LEG!!  Oh, and watch next week (hurrah for previews) because the other glove's making an appearance.  And- it's WRONG.

 

"And you're dead!"

(looks at himself) "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"  Good old Martha for talking in exclamation marks.

 

Last week was as good as it got.  The number of people recently who have smugly quoted at me that happiness is only so because you've got something to compare it with.  Easy for YOU to say.  Buttock-clenchingly piss-easy.

 

Also, how many times must my sister be so wonderful and full of sweetness and light before I feel like an utter shit?  Once, is the answer.  But she keeps on going, without a trace of malice.

Dear Paul,

 

I feel it'd be rude not to reply to all four of your messages, that looks like I'm ignoring you.  I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I'm taken.  The lovely and eloquent gentleman in question asks me to inform you that you can do something unpleasant involving twenty-four printed copies of your e-mail address and your back passage; I myself fear that intelligent conversation is more my line of interest than yours.

 

With all appropriate respect,

 

Fiona

Just to let you know I've been watching you, and I'm not the only one.  I can see you're brilliant, but that's because it's obvious.  You're better than I could be, because you've had a headstart perhaps? But also you soak up what I want to be like a sponge.  And you're faster than I can be, you've read more and heard more and you know more.

 

Part of me hates you because I want to see myself in you but I can't.  Part of me wonders quite how this situation could happen.

 

I think it is summed up by this: I am envious of you because you see beauty in things I could never be bothered with.  It occurs to me, that maybe this is more common a symptom than perhaps we give it credit for.

 

 

On an entirely different note, I have discovered the wonderful thing about a duvet - its weight.  A little weight, and heat, and softness, and that smell that is so comforting.  I don't know why that should be so comforting without being Freudian, I'm sorry.  Today, all I wanted really to do was lie in a darkened room and inhale the best smell in the world (which isn't a duvet, but is remarkable comforting) but of course that makes me not quite right and just that slightest bit irritating.

 

My logic doesn't stretch to the next few days.

I GOT INTO DURHAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Which is fantastic.  Fantastic-fantastic-fantastic.  It's not made my day.  It's made the next three years.  HURRAH!!!

 

This is an example of Sod's Law, in that I told J today that I wasn't expecting a reply until March, and it was at home on the kitchen table all along.

 

It was also a different college to the one I was expecting: Grey, which is Hill not Bailey, big not small, and according to its JCR is so laid back it's flipped over.  No joke.  Also, Wikipedia says that its Ultimate Frisbee team remains unbeaten, and that they were going to call it Oliver Cromwell College but it was too controversial so they called it after the bloke who named Earl Grey Tea instead.  I'm so proud.

 

It's also further away from where I live than Paris is.  This scares Mum more than it does me, although doubtless there will be a certain degree of panicking in the not-too-distant future.

 

I GOT IN!!!!!!

 

Jubilant.

 

Symonds has blocked blogs again, good for them, hence lack of updates recently.  Sorry about that.  I'll be around soon, yes?

 

It's all good.