"I'm stacking sandbags against the river of your troubles."

I survived Bristol. After getting up at four thirty, catching three (late) trains, and falling asleep every time I sat down, I got through the actual interview without incident. I did of course miss the Politics trip to London - and I am still bitter - but apparently my year made a total show of themselves. Half of them got lost. Sigh. I would have enjoyed it, and yet I didn't get to go.

Bristol is actually a very pretty city. I'm bitter anyway.

Today has featured me being tired and everyone is constantly regaling me with the delights I missed. I have too much work to do, too little time to do it in and everything is teh suck.

However, there was a moment of comedy for today. I was sitting in the library at lunchtime, and Cath was rambling about the Lostprophets, and Sam was playing with her vampire fangs (I got her this for her birthday) and Miranda was talking about Clay Aiken and I was moaning about last week's Stargate ("Again?" seems the general consensus) and Mr Evans was doing some marking or something on the desk, while politely refraining from commenting on what I or anyone else was saying. And things were proceeding as normal when people doing the Drama Festival (it's that time of year again!) technical rehearsals came in. One of them was dressed as Juliet, and the other was dressed as a friar but I can't remember which play (Once a Catholic?).

Anyway. We're all half-asleep, including Mr Evans. In she comes, dressed as a friar. With cowl and belt, heavy shadows over her face and big wooden cross under both hands. "Mr Evans," she says.

I apologise for using the word, but there is no other word more appropriate - he freaked. You could see the threatened scream, the wild fear - just for a half a second, he was on the verge of completely losing it. Of course after a moment the rest of the library collapsed in hysterics, and I produced the library copy of the Bible to augment the costume. But it was a minute before Mr Evans laughed. He said later he really thought it was time to meet his maker.

Mrs Barry was sorry she missed it.

I have too much to do. And if I know her, my mother will object vociferously to my watching Stargate tonight. Threads, it is. Argh.

Stargate - Threads (oh. my.god.(and note the altered punctuation))

( Stargate 8x18 - Threads )

And now for fic-writing and other such wonders.