We've just had a couple of people stick their heads round the door to show an applicant what a shared room looks like.  S and I are both at our computers, typing away.  "Are you just revising?" asked the guide, who lives at the other end of our corridor.  "Oh yes," we assured him.

The door closed.  "What are you actually doing?"

"Online games.  You?"

"Blogging."  (Pause.)  "I'm going to get some toast, do you want some?"

Such is revision in our room.  I think I've had about six slices of toast today, and three mugs of coffee.  Added to this, Abba's Greatest Hits went round to the beginning again about twenty minutes ago.  Life is good.

Revision times always make me feel guilty, because I know I could, should and if I really cared about my subject enough would do some more work than I am doing.  I'm not going to complain that I'm going to fail things, even though I fear that there is a distinct possibility that I might do significantly badly at several of my modules, but I'm not going to blow it up out of proportion because then I shall start thinking it.  As it is, though, I quite like private study, and hard work and I go together (to quote Humphrey Lyttleton, may he rest in peace) like a horse and marriage.  Frankly this year is less stressful than last year, and it's going to be less stressful than next year.  Neither of which is saying much, but does allow me to take the attitude of Man Up And Get On With It.

Besides, I am working.  I have a half-annotated copy of an article by Lord Bingham in front of me.  And I've compiled a list of my five favourite law lords ever.  (Currently standing at, in descending order of awesomeness: Lord Bingham, because even when he's dissenting he's right, Baroness Hale, because she always has a different take on everything and because I want to be her, Lord Browne-Wilkinson, because he's deliciously readable,  Lord Goff of Chieveley, because he could have been named by Spike Milligan, and Lord Reid for his judgement in Anisminic v Foreign Compensation Commission which is without much doubt my favourite judicial speech ever - the eloquent, breathtakingly clever equivalent of sticking two fingers up at the Government.  Oh yes.  Anyone who says "But what about Lord Denning?" about this one will be taken out to the nearest chemical shed, or failing that Van Mildert's pond, and shot.)

I'm now trying to work out what comes in my five favourite judicial speeches of all time, after which I'll continue to five favourite Acts of Parliament, five favourite members of the executive (clue: not Alastair Campbell), five favourite articles of the European Convention on Human Rights, five favourite jurisprudential theorists and so on and so forth.  It sort of counts as work, I am convinced of it.

Right.  Enough procrastination for this month.  (Hah!)  If you'll excuse me, I have a country to put to rights.  Constitutional law is so good for the ego...

No.  It is no good.

The essay I wanted to finish on Thursday was finally completed early this afternoon.  I have failed to start the other one.  I have no concentration, I've had no concentration for the last week, and now I am almost certain I will continue to do so for the next week at least.  I am no longer awake and focused between the hours of 8.30pm and 9.30am and I'm bloody glad I came back a week early because if that keeps going and I don't get back into the swing of things pretty damned sharpish there will be trouble.

For this reason I am now giving up and going to knit a few more rounds of sock, and maybe, if you're lucky, read about judicial review.  But that might be pushing it.  Harrumph.

A friend of mine said earlier that when you think you're sinking under work, it's there because they're trying to push you, see how much you can cope with before you crack.  I'm glad she put it like that - it's a challenge now and therefore losing isn't feasible.

"If it was so, it might be.  And if it were so, it would be.  But as it isn't, it ain't.  That's logic."

Following the relative success of Sunday, I convinced K that what we really needed after working for a few days straight was to go back to York, raid the haberdasheries, enjoy the sunshine while it lasts, and have afternoon tea.  Rather, ah, coincidentally, I taught her to knit on Monday night, so armed with simple-yet-effective scarf pattern, off we went yesterday in search of bamboo needles, Noro yarn (cos it's beautiful and colour-changey and generally exciting) and something nice for a pair of socks for me.

Success on all three counts, I am pleased to say, and not only that, but I got me some properly narrow double-pointed needles (harder to find than you imagine, you know, even my backup for all difficult-to-find knitting implements let me down on this one), and a good bit of frantic winding of balls on the train later and here we are, ready to go.  It's sea-green with bluey and browny bits in it and there is a stitch pattern fermenting in my mind as we speak, so watch this space!  I drafted it this morning and it didn't go all that well, it must be said, but the learning curve continues and, to be fair, this is my first sock pattern.  It's got to be a good one.

After complaining a few days ago about no theatre for two months, I've now got my props list for Mack and Mabel in mid-June.  Thought I'd ask for it early on account of it involving a few film sets and wanting some time to work a few things out.  There's a possibility I've found a fold-away pram and some equipment about half an hour north of Newcastle, and potentially an old-fashioned camera from Lincolnshire.  What other job gives you things to find like that?!  I'm just looking forward to them being sat in my room for a few weeks - poor roommate.

One last lovely thing that made me smile this evening: walking back from K's about an hour ago past Collingwood I heard singing.  Concentrating for a second, I can confirm that the first karaoke rendition of Living On A Prayer this term has occurred.  I've been here what, four days?  I do love Durham.  I do.

This is what you find in court documents to say that something has been omitted for security reasons, or possibly to prevent a member of the cabinet from being embarassed.  Okay, you might think, so it's a bit irritating, and there's probably a good reason for it, so you just get on with it don't you?

In some contexts, I personally think it is quite scary.

This from the first case of R v Director of the Serious Fraud Office (this is the one about the allegations of corruption in BAE systems that got dropped because of pressure from Saudi Arabia - there was a judicial review about whether the SFO should have dropped the case for policy/diplomacy reasons and this is it.  The court originally decided it shouldn't have been dropped.  Then it was appealed, and subsequently of course it was found for the Government.)

R on the application of Corner House Research and Campaign Against Arms Trade v Director of the Serious Fraud Office [2008] EWHC 714 at [34] per Moses LJ:

"In discussion, the following points were made:

• [Redaction]
• Any proposal that the investigation be resolved by parties pleading guilty to certain charges would be unlikely to reduce the offence caused to the Saudi Royal Family, even if the deal were accepted, and the process would still drag out for a considerable period;
• [Redaction]
• It was important that the Government did not give peope reason to believe that threatening the British system resulted in parties getting their way.  But the Government also needed to consider the damage done to the credibility of the law in this area by a long and failed trial, and its good reputation n bribery and corruption issues compared with many of its international partners."

It's a massive world and there are some very scary people out there.  It's one thing feeling helpless about it, saying it's nothing to do with me, I don't want to go into politics anyway, and nobody listens to protests these days, and anyway they have guns, and there are things I'd rather be doing, and how could I change it anyway, and I wouldn't be very good at it and there are things I'd be far better and and far more effective at, and it's all over and done with now anyway and it doesn't affect me and nobody's died because of it it's only a bit of money what can you do?  But there's always a little voice inside my head that says: just listen to yourself.  I can never quite justify to myself being where I am, doing what I am, and not giving away every penny I have to people who are starving, and not doing anything to protect liberty, safety and honesty.  That's just how it is.  Whatever I do I'm always going to feel guilty about it.

Yesterday was a series of short leaps from adventure to adventure, with a good bit of questing in there because, well, does one ever need an excuse for questing?  The point being that yesterday, Mum and I ventured to York.  And discovered, to my delight, that it's really very pretty.  The original purpose of our visit was a shop called Duttons for Buttons, home of the delight that is a whole wallfull of buttons, all shapes, sizes, colours, materials.  I'd been quite excited about this for a while (the phrase "button shop to end all button shops" has ended up in my conversation a lot recently).

Sadly, yesterday being a Sunday, it was closed.  Sod.

On the other hand, there is something about a very pretty city that is as yet unexplored and the opportunity was swiftly taken to discover (i) a vast multitude of second hand bookshops, and places selling the wherewithall for artisan crafts - yarn, lace, the lot - and (ii) the most wonderful tearoom I have ever come across.  Anyone who has ever met me socially will be aware of my love of the coffee shop, the tearoom, and the café.  I've spent quite a while over the years perfecting the art of the coffeeshophop.  And this, this is one for remembering.  "Oh!  Bettys!" my mum announced as we walked past it.  (If anyone's interested, it was the little one.)  "My grandfather was the master baker at the Harlow Carr branch.  I wonder if their cinnamon toast is still as good..."  So of course we had to go and find out, and I think I have found my natural environment.  It was beautiful.  And the lemon and lime cake, I am pleased to report, was just as good as the cinnamon toast.  That is to say, excellent.

Having said this, I'm now back in the endearing land of chipped paint and decidedly painful mattresses (Grey College - keeping chiropractors and dieticians in business since 1959) and all is good, except that I'm not doing any theatre for nearly two months, and I now have two essays to write.  Such is life.  On the other hand, immediately to my left is the remains of a very good curd tart from Bettys, which I'm inclined to think makes 9am just that bit more palatable.  Time to dig out the coffee methinks.

Thanks to a lovely long car drive, these are well under way and I'm dreaming about bamboo needles and stitch markers.  I'd give you a picture but my phone is currently playing up and refusing to connect to my computer.  To be continued, let's say.

DISCLAIMER: C, if you read this before I see you tomorrow (or later today as it is now) I bear no responsibility for the ruining of any surprise you may or may not have in relation to socks.  Don't look, dammit.  I'm only posting because I'm impatient and I actually think they're really nice (might knit a pair for myself!).  On your own head be it.  Oh, and happy birthday, love.

Not one, but two, pairs of socks finished today.  Oh yes.  How exciting can you get?  And another pair started on lovely bamboo needles, it's going to be so exciting.  And seeing as I waved a camera in my sister's face enough this afternoon, here you go, have some photos.

These ones have been ongoing for a good few months now, I started them at the beginning of February:

(Pattern: Baudelaire by Cookie A, Knitty Summer 06.  Photo taken before I'd finished the second one - don't worry, they pretty much look the same)

They've been irritating me for a good long while - I'm not much of a one for the toe-up socks, as I will quite happily tell anyone who asks, and it's not a particularly nice yarn to work with... but I told myself I wouldn't start the next lot of really lovely ones until I'd finished them.  There's self-control.  So all finished now, cheers cheers, and M can stop saying "Oh are you still at those things, I thought you'd finished them ages ago" every time I see him.  (To be fair, I'm pretty happy he notices now.  Add it to the list of ways he's wonderful.)

These on the other hand, I started about ten days ago, for C's birthday today:

(Pattern: 'Vog On by Aleta Fera, Knitty Summer 07)

I have to say, I love them.  I love that they have a wonderful, understated pattern even without especially ostentatious yarn.  I love that the heel is textured as well - there's very little as frustrating as a beautiful sock pattern with a boring heel.  I love that they can have ribbon attached to them, and that I can do every last bit while concentrating fully on Poirot.  In short, these socks make me unspeakably happy.  For this reason I am proud to pass them onto Clare, but shall be buying some more yarn and shamelessly pillaging the idea for my own benefit, i.e., a pair for me, a pair for Mum, pairs for short-notice birthdays to come.  How deliciously exciting.

Went to see Evita with the family last night - and wasn't it absolutely a blast.  Spectacular stuff.  (It's at the Mayflower in Southampton for the next two weeks, I think, so if you get a chance to go and see it do!)

Now, the theatre has been somewhat spoiled for me in the last term.  But having discovered the whereabouts of the follow spots, and the screens with the conductors, and spotted the stagehand who kept his headset on when he was onstage in the middle of a scene discreetly moving set - well, the set was beautiful and very, very clever, the lighting was highly exciting, costumes had obviously had a ball, they were averaging two or three costumes per cast member to say nothing of Eva herself.  So having sated my interest in the mechanics to some extent, let us continue to the acting and the plot.

The girl playing Eva was absolutely spectacular.  She's got a pair of lungs on her, frankly.  Eva Duarte is a very difficult character to get to grips with, so many facets and changing from a glowing fifteen year old to a dying woman in an hour and a half, and she absolutely managed it with great success.  The gentleman playing Che Guevara - do you remember the show with Graham Norton on BBC1 trying to find Joseph for the West End?  Well he was the one who was ridiculously up himself, and sang "I have been promised a show of my own" when he got voted off.  So frankly I wasn't particularly well-disposed to him in advance.  But no, a few issues with timing at the beginning and then he was very good.  Not quite David Essex, but then who is.  And as for Peron, well, very well-cast.  And the chorus... the choreographer must have had a ball.

Subtleties... I like Evita as a show because it is not black and white, nor is it happy-clappy, nor does it have a completely happy ending, or even a Deliberately Sour ending.  And I'm very much one for the political comment - not to mention, very much one for Tim Rice's lyrics.  It's strange, I'd always taken "You Must Love Me" to be a revelation, as opposed to a command.  It's the mark of some very good writing, very good acting, to successfully say one thing and mean something else.

One other thing needs a mention, and that's "Rainbow High", and the very cunning use of eight men in tailcoats with full-length mirrors.  Beautifully staged.  Breathtaking.

So other than the kid with the headset, and the guy next to me who kept talking, it was really very, very good.  Go see.

Following one of the more surreal conversations I have had with my parents, I have compiled two lists, and commentary therewith:

PEOPLE I FIND ATTRACTIVE IN COMMON WITH MY MOTHER:
~ Richard Armitage
~ Colin Firth (genetically programmed to fancy same in capacity as Englishwomen - any who say they don't are lying to you and/or themselves)
~ Damien Lewis
~ James Martin
~ The announcer with the silky voice off Radio 4
~ Under no possible circumstances Hugh Grant.  This is final and resolute.

This worries me slightly in that when she said, "Which one's Damien Lewis?" and I replied, "The one out of the Forsyte Saga, you know," the realisation came to me that most of them are from period dramas, and one of the remaining two is a chef.  The announcer on Radio 4 - well, if you know who I mean, you'll know what I mean as well. 

PEOPLE I FIND ATTRACTIVE IN COMMON WITH MY FATHER:
~ Fiona Bruce

Happily shorter list.  We changed the subject shortly after this.

As for the circus... I went back to work today on Ladies' Fashions.  Just for the day, it's the only they'd given me.  The person I disliked most, who made my summer quite a lot more painful than perhaps it could have been, has left.  It was great.  We tried on dresses, ate vast amounts of chocolate and took extra time for lunch.  On the occasions I've been back during the holidays I've tended to be on Menswear, or occasionally Underwear.  But every time I go back to Fashions I realise that actually it's fantastic, I won the departmental lottery.  They're great.  It's great.  The customers are more erratic than Menswear and not always as benign.  But I enjoy it more than I would admit to them.  I did the last few days' sales totals and sharpened all the pencils.

Also they were selling leopard print flares.  Leopard print flares.  Not just bell-bottomed trousers.  Proper Abba flares.  In leopard print.  Pretty expensive ones.  I'm glad I won't be working there for ever, or even in one or two years' time.  But it makes me very happy to be working in a place that is inherently ironic, even if the customers don't notice it nearly to the extent of the staff.

What I've earned today should pay for some really lovely semi-solid chestnut brown yarn I've had my eye on.  Socks, you know.  They are the thing.  Two projects nearing completion, one to be started.  One blanket, too, if I get my way.  Ideas and concoctions spinning in my head.  I'm going to have to put some of them to paper some time soon.  See how it goes.

One thing I would really love to do but fear would come across as voyeuristic:

There are some photos of couples on Facebook that are just beautiful.  I would love to collect images of devotion, and make a collage out of them, or cover a room with them, or show them to people who just need to see it clearly, to make them smile.  People who are beautiful because they don't care, because they're happy, and they're wrapped up in someone else.  Everyone wants to be accepted.  You can't match, and you can't fake, or watch, or timetable those occasional moments when people achieve it.