As Willow Goes, So Goes My Nation

I am back in Oxford! Sadly, I still have no internet in my room (even though everyone else in my house has, and I have received an email saying that I should; WOE). It has taken me until today to reset my password for the library computer, as I had helfully forgotten it over the summer.

This is not, I feel, an auspicious start to the term.

I just discovered the BEST ACKNOWLEDGEMENT EVER in the preface to an edition of The Battle of Brunanburh: "In conclusion, I wish to thank Professor J.R.R. Tolkien for many suggestive remarks". OH TOLKIEN. Is anyone else picturing him going around leering at all the other academics? I'm imagining him sidling up and muttering things like, "I'd be the Lord of your ring, baby" and "Want to let me give your work on the Old English phallic riddles a good going-over? If you know what I mean, and I think you do".

(No, I am certainly not distracting myself from work with this. WHY WOULD YOU ASK THAT.)

About a year ago, I posted about my feelings regarding Torchwood. I said that I knew it was utterly ridiculous, but I had a feeling I was going to get sucked in before too long. Unsurprisingly, it came true.

( I stand by what I said. Mostly. SPOILERS for any and all Torchwood up to and including Children of Earth. )

Being back at home means slowly getting used again to the things that I don't have access to at university. One of these is television - while I'll watch the odd programme on iPlayer if it particularly catches my eye, I don't have an actual TV (or a licence) and the TV room in college is too far for me to drag myself when I'm feeling lazy (that is, most of the time). Once I'm there, I can't say I feel the need for it, and when I get back home it takes me a week or so to get back into the habit of turning it on and channel-surfing. I'm slowly getting back into it now.

Tonight I ended up indulging in a slight guilty pleasure - the music TV channels. Yes, I like to listen to awful music sometimes, and there are plenty of channels which provide that. Either I had forgotten how odd they can be, though, or things have got very weird while I have been away.

Loads of channels (those which weren't playing back-to-back Michael Jackson hits, that is; the other day I counted nine at once. For some reason they seem to be focusing on the less fun songs in his back catalogue: I have seen Man in the Mirror and Earth Song more times than I care to mention over the past few days, whereas I haven't come across I Want You Back - which I maintain has one of the best introductions ever, regardless of any mockery it will get me - at all. Any world in which you can be confident of seeing the video for Earth Song somewhere when you turn on your television is, frankly, a frightening one) seemed to have as an unspoken theme, "The Cheesiest, Most Pop-tastic Hits of the Nineties (ie, Your Childhood)". I saw both Ice Ice Baby and U Can't Touch This within about five minutes. I saw two videos for ... Baby One More Time in quick succession (and yes, I watched them both. I'm not proud of myself).

One particular chart was even more bizarre. According to the Smash Hits channel, Because We Want to by Billie Piper is the 30th best No.1 single ever. I'm not going to deny that it's a catchy song, but I can't bring myself to accept that, somehow - and this is from someone who was the target audience when it was first released and has nothing whatsoever against Billie Piper. But it is madness (as is the video, which has got even less incomprehensible since the last time I watched it, years ago).

25 was Tragedy by Steps. I wasn't even pretending to understand by that point. Perhaps the meaning of "best" changed while I was away. I don't know any more.

This is quite possibly the easiest essay I have had this term. Discuss similarities and differences between the consonant systems in the phonology of (British) Received Pronunciation and General American. It's just technical, not at all theory-based, which means it's really only a case of going through and ticking boxes rather than trying to engage with incomprehensible theories that make no sense to my idiot brain. And yet I am failing hideously at it. My motivation is just gone this week; more so than usual, I mean. I have screwed up with the reading and planning, which means the essay is not going to be anywhere near as good as my tutor wants, and even though I have a plan (of sorts) now I just can't make myself write. I really don't want to be up until three again, like every other Thursday for the past month - I have a transcription and commentary to do in the morning, then my tute and a revision class for Mods - but I just cannot do this. I want to do nothing except stay in bed for the next few days.

I hate this. I am sick of feeling unmotivated and stupid and inadequate. I want to work hard and get Firsts and actually get some sort of work ethic back, as opposed to whatever it is I have now, but I just cannot make myself. The thought of the next two weeks makes me want to cry.

Also, I am being incredibly angsty, which is no fun for anyone. Next thing I know I will be fondling razorblades and writing terrible poetry, which isn't all that appealing.

I have just heard from copperbadge's journal that Amazon has started to remove the sales ranking information from many of its gay and lesbian books (which means they don't appear on bestseller or similar lists and meaning they are less likely to be seen and bought). This is as part of a new policy to remove "adult" material from searches:

In consideration of our entire customer base, we exclude "adult" material from appearing in some searches and best seller lists. Since these lists are generated using sales ranks, adult materials must also be excluded from that feature.
Hence, if you have further questions, kindly write back to us.

This has affected erotica as well, but not non-erotica romance and heterosexual-focused literature. A lot of the gay and lesbian books included on the list are not adult in content: Heather Has Two Mommies, anyone?

I plan to let Amazon know that I will be boycotting them while this policy remains; if anyone else would like to, they can do it here:
https://www.amazon.com/gp/help/contact-us/general-questions.html?ie=UTF8&type=email

More information can be found here, here and here, as well as a petition here.

I had a search, and it turns out that Stephen Fry's memoir Moab is My Washpot has had its rankings removed on amazon.com (although not amazon.co.uk). I know some of you - Ros, at least - follow him on Twitter; if there's any way you could link him to this post, I would be very grateful.

EDIT - Okay, now I'm even more pissed off. They still have sales rankings for Playboy: The Complete Centerfolds, which, as the name would suggest, includes pictures of over 600 naked women. What the fuck, Amazon?

LIstening to my brother on the phone just now:

NICOL: ... Oh my God! A blackbird just flew past the window carrying a whole apple in its mouth! Wait, no - it's a bun!

I do like being at home.

Earlier this afternoon, I walked past a large handcart that one of my college's porters had left on the pavement outside my house. When I glanced into it, I could see that it was filled with books. I swear, it took every ounce* of self-control I possessed not to grab it and make good my escape, laughing manically; unattended book-carriers have loomed large in my fantasies for many years. (I have never been able to walk past an East Sussex County Council library van without wanting to hijack it. Once in primary school I got to be the student from my year group who was allowed to go and select books from the mobile library which visited once a year; the memory still makes me happy even now.)

One day I will have sufficient space and disposable income to buy as many books as I like, the recession permitting (of course, if it gets really bad, I imagine I can just join in with the general looting). Until then, I will continue to stare lustfully at unguarded handcarts. And maybe spend another morning wandering Blackwells in a happy stupor.




*Should this be gram? Are metaphors in metric now?

It's half ten, I am writing an essay that needs to be handed in at midday tomorrow, and I can hear from my window a group of very drunken young men singing something which is - improbably - to the same tune as Camptown Races.

If I didn't feel like a proper student before, I do now.

The next actor to play the Doctor is being announced this evening! I am torn between wanting to know now and not wanting to find out at all in case of disappointment. I found out recently that themightycait's dad knows who it's going to be, due to working at the BBC, news which led to me becoming slightly hysterical and trying to work out if I wanted to know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about it, or dash to her house and interrogate him. Now there will be no need for the second option, thankfully.

Hopefully I will be able to stop irritating my family by rambling at great length about it and other Doctor Who-related news. They are deeply patient, and put up with me far more than we should; we had a spirited conversation about it all over tea yesterday night, and I was quietly pleased to be part of such a geeky family.

I do hope the news isn't a disappointment, though. I had this exchange with my mum yesterday:

MUM: So, any idea who it's going to be? I heard a rumour about Tom Chambers.
VERITY: From Strictly Come Dancing? If that turns out to be true, I will resign from life.

In similarly depressing news, I hear that Mamma Mia is the top-selling DVD of all time. This seem wrong on a fundamental level - that such a record hasn't gone to a thoughtful and insightful film which could easily be called a work of art, but to a piece of summer fluff whose most notable achievement seems to be the sheer number of ABBA songs it managed to shoehorn in without being noticably jarring. It's not that it was a bad film. I went to see it, twice, and enjoyed it; the second showing was a singalong version and I found myself dancing in the aisle with my friends (yes, I am ashamed). And I'm sure it did have a message, although I'm not entirely sure what this was. If You Are a Gay Character, Your Relationship Will Take Up Approximately Two Seconds of Screentime, perhaps? (Note - this is approximately a tenth of the time devoted to showing men in snorkelling gear, none of whom we see before or afterwards, dancing along a pier for no apparent reason.) Independent Women are Great (As Long as They End Up Safely Married Off)? No, I think it's If You Ever Get Trapped With Pierce Brosnan, For the Love of God, Don't Let Him Sing at You.

I have very little faith in the opinion of the public on matters such as this. It's like when I found out about a year ago that the listeners of a particular London radio station had voted "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol as the best song ever. Really, anonymous Londoners? Of all of the songs in history - and let's be reasonable and narrow it to popular music from the 1950s onwards, as that's really what people mean when they say, "ever", could you not perhaps have chosen something with a real tune? Something with lyrics that sound as if the writer spent more than five minutes on them, and didn't just choose words based on how well they scanned? Snow Patrol aren't a bad band, when it comes down to it, but they're so middle-of-the-road that they might as well have white lines painted along their backs.

(You might wonder why I'm able to denounce these bands so comprehensively, as apparently I don't listen to them. For this, you can thank my work, and the fact that my local radio station is played there during my shifts; it is thanks to this that I have heard "Chasing Cars" a good one hundred times more than I would choose in any sane world. Its tagline is "More music variety", something it usually announces before it plays "Dancing in the Moonlight" by Toploader for the 50th Saturday in a row, making me want to shriek obscenities and hurl a brick at the radio).

Until the Doctor Who news is announced, guys, let's waste time chasing cars around our heads. If anyone can work out what exactly that oh-so-poignant image is supposed to mean.

This evening there was a trip for all the first year students who were interested to go iceskating. I tagged along, because I love skating and hardly ever get to do it, so that was good news. And I remembered what I was doing and everything! Before long I was zipping around at top speed and having a great time.

Then I started to get cocky. I was smug about my skating prowess in comparison to the poor souls still tentatively hugging the wall. I even thought to myself, "I bet I'll be able to tell Rhiannon I stayed upright the whole time!".

Bad move. I had a spectacular fall. I think I was actually airborne for part of it. It ended with my crashing down hard on one knee.

(The saying, "Pride goeth before a fall"*? Literally true in my case.)

I was fine: I picked myself up and commented brightly, "Well, that was impressive" to the startled looking guy who stopped to help me up, and then tried to keep going. My knee felt a bit weird, though, so I went to sit down for a minute. It's still a bit stiff - I can only bend it a little way - but it doesn't hurt, exactly. Anyway, I register with a GP tomorrow, so I can ask for help if I wake up limping. Right now I have a scarf wrapped around it and am propping it up; sadly there are no frozen peas available to complete the RICE quaterity. I have mad first add skillz. It was just irritating because I spent the rest of the night afraid to go fast (and also, although this had nothing to do with the fall, wearing a fetching pair of mismatched skates because I realised my right one was too small).

Let's hope I don't further injure myself tomorrow. Oxford is beautiful, but I'm eyeing the cobbles warily.




*a misquote, actually, but I can't be arsed to haul out my Bible (for my course) and look it up. IT'S LATE AND I AM TIRED.

Going away is hectic, you guys. (I assume you don't know this.) Why is there so much stuff to do?

I had my final shift at work today; I got presents from my coworker Cathy (presents! Including a candle that smells of chocolate and caramel, and which I love), and Pat, my boss, gave me £50! Best Job Ever (minus the cold and the bike ride uphill and the lack of any seats or a toilet). I think it's taught me a lot.

( The Learning )

I got to see my favourite adorable customer couple, who wished me luck and told me that they met at university (Sussex) - he was Sciences, she was Arts, but they met in a crypt under a church and never looked back. I had to restrain myself from letting out an "aw".

The rest of the day has been a frenzied packing montage. My to-do list, had I committed it to paper, would have looked something like this:

ABBA Gold?
Save fanfic.
Find sock!
CUTLASS.
Sleeping bag? YES

I have now assembled all of my stuff, but it's not yet packed; the sofa and dining room floor have all but disappeared from view. My parents have decided attempting to pack is a task best left for tomorrow; who am I to question them? I foresee a heated discussion in the morning about exactly how many books constitutes a reasonable amount.

Also, my sister Rhiannon is at home! She went to the wedding of a guy from her work today, so she's here tonight. :) It's like she's never been away. I think the cats are confused by all of this coming and going, though; they're roaming about the house, staring confusedly at the piles of Things To Pack. My dad lit a fire for the first time this year and Dandelion rolled delightedly in front of it, completely oblivious to the fact that her paw was pressed against the metal fireguard. I had to squawk and drag her away.

Wish me luck for tomorrow, guys. I am going to kick Oxford's arse! (With luck, anyway.) Hopefully when I give in my essay (WHICH IS NOW FINISHED, BEST MOMENT EVER), my tutor will not say "MADE OF FAIL" or "Essays. You're doing it wrong" and hand it right back.

An article like this is not at all helpful for combating my fears about starting at Oxford. Thanks, Tanya Gold. I read it yesterday morning, went in a daze to check my email and was instantly confronted with an email warning me not to read the G2 on any account because it was ALL LIES. My friends and family have rallied round comfortingly and have been thoroughly denouncing the article. I am considering erasing my memory of it by banging my head against things until the trauma takes care of things for me.

I know that it was just one person's experience, and that it was fifteen years ago. I have college parents at Merton, two second-year students who sound absolutely lovely and both say that they're very happy there. It's just that the article seemed scarily similar to all of my deepest fears about university, which I've been trying to suppress. Still. Never mind.

I'm trying to get ready for leaving on Sunday, and things are going okay. I have a tentative attempt at a pile of things to pack, have written my Essay of Dooom at long last, am still ploughing on (monumentally slowly) with the reading list, and have been doing various computer-related admin. My family had a shared PC for years; then eighteen months ago my dad bought a shiny new Mac. We also had a shared laptop for the purposes of three children doing coursework at once. My task for the last few days has been to track down all my files that I want to keep from these computers and transfer them to Donna, my laptop. It's now all done, and I'm organising them all. I find tasks like this oddly relaxing, so it's been fun.

Yesterday I said goodbye to my friends Fiona and Eleanor, the only ones left at home, with a trip into Brighton to have a meal and see the singalong version of Mamma Mia. This was awesome, as yesterday had been a bit trying until then. I just got new lenses for my glasses (because I have become even blinder) and found out that they couldn't swap the lenses on one of the frames (thankfully, I now have two) because something weird has apparently happened with them and they're warped. Or something. This was deeply irritating. Then, as I prepared to leave the house to catch the train to Brighton, I went to take out my contact lenses and swap them for glasses. One came out without a hitch. The other, not so much. I spent ten minutes clawing at my eye (which hurt, and got mascara everywhere) and then had to run for the train. Not fun.

Similarly annoying things seem to have been happening to others over the last few days. I feel lucky compared to the wonderful copperbadge, as some of you probably already know - his account was hacked and all of his past posts deleted. :(

I saw this morning that sarahtales's final installments of Drop Dead Gorgeous are up. I can't bring myself to read it, you guys. The prospect of no more fic from her ever again fills me with despair (and also, if this ends unhappily I will hit something).

On a lighter note (well, if you have a slightly warped sense of humour), the front page of my local paper had a story on it this morning about a man who cut his own arm off with a chainsaw. (I'm not laughing. No, I'm really not.) While this is, of course, horrible, I can't help finding bits of the story such as this unaccountably hilarious.

While they were doing that I went over to find the arm, they didn't tell me to I just knew we needed the arm.

It was laying in the garden, I put it in plastic bag with some frozen pastries and gave it to them.

PASTRIES. He put it in a bag with PASTRIES. *howls*

In the last ten minutes, I have had the following exchange with two people:

VERITY: Do you know what day it is?
OTHER PERSON: International Talk Like a Pirate Day!
VERITY: AYE!

I love my friends. Enjoy the day, maties!

HOLY CRAP MY REMOTE. *deep breathing*

Just now, I was sitting on the computer while Rhiannon was on the sofa, watching Buzzcocks together. From behind me, I heard the channel change.

No matter, I thought. Clearly, Rhiannon has decided to change to something else. I'll just turn around and oh my god, what the fuck.

Rhiannon had left the room. The remote was lying on its own in the middle of the sofa.

And it was changing channels by itself.

Really. As I watched, it kept pressing 777. Nothing was touching it; it was the right way up. I have no idea what was causing it.

My reaction went something like this:

VERITY: AUGHHHHH! AUGHHHHHHH! RHIANNON! THE REMOTE! DEVIL REMOTE!
RHIANNON: What's the mat- OH MY GOD!

She rushed off upstairs. I remained shrieking. As I watched, it switched from 777 to 774.

The shrieking began to rouse my parents.

DAD: What's going on?
VERITY: *semi-incoherent through laughter* THE REMOTE! THE REMOTE!
DAD: WHAT?
VERITY: THE REMOTE! IT'S POSSESSED! OR IT'S A GHOST! OR IT'S POSSESSED BY A GHOST!

Eventually it stopped. I have no idea what was going on, but am now watching it warily for other odd actions (not to mention my family members for speaking in tongues).

Today, my mum seemed to have a slight panic over the fact that I will be leaving for university in a few weeks and am still completely incompetant at ... well, nearly everything. She tried to teach me how to iron.

Yes, I realise how deeply spoiled this makes me sound. In my defence, I care very little about whether my clothes are crumpled or not. And I have ironed. Once or twice. Some years ago.

The lesson did not go particularly well.

VERITY: *manfully trying to avoid ironing hand* How's this? Um. The creases aren't really coming out.
MUM: Put down the iron.
VERITY: No, I really think I'm getting the hang of it now-
MUM: I really think that in a moment I might strangle you.
VERITY: Ah.

I think I inherited my impatience when it comes to teaching from my mum. Neither one of us can stand to see someone doing something badly. I remember trying to help people with maths in the past.

VERITY: ... and so that's the answer.
CLASSMATE: Why is that the answer?
VERITY: What?
CLASSMATE: I don't understand.
VERITY: *through gritted teeth* What do you mean? It just is. That's how it works.
CLASSMATE: But why?
VERITY: *restrains self from throwing rubber at classmate's head*

I am a horrible teacher and should never be given control of a class. (Seriously, don't ever let me. I think you can see from this that I would be abysmal at it.) For a while recently I tried tutoring a younger girl in French. This was perhaps not a wise move. For me, trying to teach someone basic French is hard. There isn't anything to be explained; it's all a matter of remembering things (vocabulary, basic conjugation of verbs, past participles and so on). I cannot remember things for someone.

Unsurprisingly, the tutoring did not last long. I think that was for the best.

I also have another Europe story! You can probably expect a few of these. Sorry to everyone who is already bored of hearing about it, but I can't resist.

( A Tale From Prague! )

Sorry for talking about it a lot. It was just a really great time. It was one of those things, I think, that you know you'll remember for years; fifteen years down the line, I hope I can still talk to people about the crazy trip I took to Europe with my friends the summer before university. I hope we all still are friends.

Ever since I read The Amber Spyglass, I've wondered what stories I would tell about my life as payment to the Furies in the land of the dead. This trip, like when I went to Australia eight years ago, has probably provided a few.

In other news, in the last few days it seems that all I've been hearing about is Sarah Palin. It's weird; I only heard of her a few days ago, and it already seems like I have done for years; the constant news stories make it very easy to get used to things. Like my reaction to the ridiculous names of her children, which I only heard for the first time a few days ago.

SUNDAY: Oh my God, who names their daughter Bristol? That's one of the stupidest names for a girl I've ever heard.
MONDAY: I suppose Bristol's not that weird. At least it wasn't Liverpool.
TUESDAY: Oh, so Bristol's pregnant? Huh. The name seems perfectly reasonable compared to everything else now.

It's so easy to adjust sometimes. (Please let this hold true for university. *crosses fingers*)

I'm back! My trip thankfully lived up to my high expectations and was absolutely fantastic; I want to go again immediately. And I'm so very sorry; this post is far, far too long. I couldn't help myself. I don't blame you if you take one look and back away. Please forgive the long-winded rambling!

( Getting there )

( Prague )

( Vienna )

( Budapest )

In non-holiday-related news, I realise I have said this before, but I think it's too late for me to resist Torchwood's siren call. Rhiannon will disown me, I know. But I can't help it. You know you're beyond hope when you walk past a coffee shop and think "Ooh, Ianto would like that" or get indignant when someone expresses surprises that Jack would be allowed to run Torchwood. Send help. Please.

And, to add insult to injury, now that I know I am going to become obsessed, I hear that next year's Torchwood will consist of five episodes only, screened over the course of a week. What the hell, universe? Are you mocking me? I finally accept that I will like something - against my will and after much agonising resistance and soul-searching - and then you don't let me have it? That's just cruel.

It turns out the exam worry was for nothing: I ended up with four As. This, I have to say, is how the cycle has gone for the last threee years: I panic about revising, I have several sessions of hysterical crying over the fact that I am too stupid to take these exams and am going to fail miserably, go into the exam terrified, spend the time waiting for my results fretting over failing, pass with flying colours. Repeat as needed. I don't think the worrying about failing will stop - I have a very low opinion of my exam capability - but this is still comforting, especially in light of current university terrors.

In a few hours I am leaving for Europe with my friends: ferry to France, train through Germany and then a week and a half exploring Prague, Vienna and Budapest. I can't wait. Right now I am in a state of packing frenzy, having spent the day running around the house in a state of high excitement trying to assemble everything I need at the same time as signing and sending off university contracts, opening a student bank account, printing off vital booking information and ensuring there will actually be someone to meet us with the key to our (cheap) apartment once we arrive in Budapest. Rhiannon has been doing much the same; everyone else accompanying us appears to be too, judging by the volume of email sent between us over the last few days. Some us us (well, me) seem to have been afflicted by the CAPSLOCK virus and are prone to overuse of exclamation marks. My bag is now stuffed to bursting and weighs about as much as a small child, but it is packed. (Well. I think it is. Although I fully expect to arrive somewhere - hopefully not outside the UK's borders - and realise exactly which essential item is lying on my floor. Rhiannon just wandered into my room, announced "I know I've left some stuff, but I don't know what yet" and wandered out again.) None of us speak any Czech or Hungarian (I attempted to read Czech phrasebook, but gave up when I got to the section that calmly informed me that the language has seven different cases, and the number of objects affects what case they end up in).

I can't wait. XD

Tomorrow is, as I have a feeling you all know, Results Day. It deserves the capital letters. It deserves a few more, really, and bold text, and possibly some kind of dramatic musical cue. (I'm thinking Beethoven's Fifth, or possibly Ride of the Valkyries.) A Level results, as we have been told over and over again by teachers, are what will decide our university entrance, and hence qualifications and jobs and ALL FUTURE HAPPINESS.

In case you cannot tell, I am a little tense. This is partly because I don't even know which outcome I would prefer at the moment: for the last few weeks I have been going through a barely-controlled university freakout. This is thanks to a number of things (my less-than-firm grip on my sanity a significant one), but mainly the Oxford reading list. It is long, and full of books which I am reading very slowly and somewhat failing to understand. But I was holding it together; until I chose my course for the first time and received a reply from the senior tutor containing many more books and the title of my first essay, to be written in time for my first tutorial. This hammer-blow to my confidence was then added to by a quote from an English student at Oxford in an article in the Guardian (pointed out to me by my dad. My dad. Is he insane?) that claimed students have to read seven books a week. Seven. Apparently I thought university would be all LJing and punting, because this caused me to have a slight breakdown over the fact that ohgod it would all be TOO HARD and I would hate it and why had I even chosen English anyway when I would hate every moment? This has died down a bit, helped by Charles Dickens, whose books I may not fully understand, but I certainly enjoy. Thank goodness. (He is the subject of my first tutorial/essay.) Please continue to be awesome, Mr Dickens. I much prefer you to Elizabeth Barret Browning, who I now feel (somewhat uncharitably) should DIE IN A FIRE. (Despite the fact that she is already dead, and yes, I loved number 43 of Sonnets from the Portuguese. Have you tried reading Aurora Leigh?)

Also helping is distraction. This doesn't help with the actual getting through the list, of course, but helps to keep me from screaming. Luckily, I have many fandom-type things to distract my mind with. As my Doctor Who thing has now spiralled into full-blown obsession (I know. It's terrible. But I can't help myself; obsession it is), I have been spending time musing on that. A lot. Did you know the programme was originally created to teach children about science and history? That's why Ian and Barbara, two of the first companions, were teachers of those subjects.

( I think something went wrong somewhere along the line. )

Good luck to all AS/A2 people for tomorrow. I'll be thinking of you.** If the exam results are all good, I will have to accept that university is a very real reality, and one approaching fast. (It disturbs me to realise that the period of time I have been referring to for ages as "next year" - as in, "What are you planning to study next year?" - is now a matter of weeks away.)

I find it hard to comprehend the idea that I am officially old enough to be released into the wild and left to fend for myself. I feel deeply incompetent. This is not helped by the fact that I seem to be unable to grasp a number of things that will be very important next year (I mean IN OCTOBER). Finance, for instance. My dad had to explain his plan for my finances (as I have none of my own, for I am incompetent) by presenting it in diagram form, after I explained to him that I didn't understand what he was talking about. I don't know why this is. I can do maths - at least, I could last year - but my brain switches off when thinking about Important Financial Issues and starts yelling, "LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" at me. This may be, in part, due to the many finance talks I have sat through at school which go into great depth about how your life will be utterly ruined if you mess if up. I had one talk - I swear this is true - which included a story about a student who, through the mismanagement of debt, ended up in a Thai prison. A Thai prison, people. Is it any wonder my brain is shying away from all of this?


*which reminds me - I recently found out that the French title for The Girl in the Fireplace is La Cheminée des temps - The Time Chimney, or possibly The Chimney of Time. Either way, I find it very funny.

** Actually, this is a lie. There's nothing like receiving potentially life-changing information that encourages selfishness. I will be thinking of myself quite a lot, with probably some mindspace to spare for my siblings. That is all.

ETA - I am about to leave the house and pick the results up. Radio 4 just announced that not only are A level results out, they are the best ever. Charlotte Green, I think I love you.