PPE

To celebrate the fact I'm almost beginning to be well-disposed towards my own degree subject again, I'm going to take advantage of my insomnia and ask a question I've been meaning to ask for a while. When I'm here and someone asks me what I'm doing, I say PPE as a matter of course; it's the most popular undergraduate course in Oxford, so if they're not doing it themselves they invariably know more than one crazy person who is. But if I'm at home and someone asks, I always say it in full, because I never know whether anyone's ever heard of it or if it's really obscure. So, a poll. It's a little self-indulgent, but in the interests of not embarrassing myself more than I have to, I'm asking.

[Poll #608292]

And while I'm here, I just want to say thank you all for trying to cheer me up this last week. I know I've been a wet blanket and a pain, and I'm really grateful for all your kindness and patience. No doubt I'm going to fall apart again at the end of this week, but right now I'm happy and I know it's because I'm loved. [/hopelessly sentimental] Thank you.

Pterry!

Eee, best night ever. Actually, I've having a nice couple of days; my crescendo of work only builds up from Wednesday onwards, so I'm enjoying my last few hours of grace. This morning I got up in time for Politics lecture, so I went there, and I came back and resisted the temptation to go back to bed. Instead, I cracked open my laptop and worked. I'm beginning, finally, to get a style of working that suits me, that makes me learn, and I was okay, reading up and taking notes and occasionally tapping out another paragraph.

And I finished it. And I sat there for a minute. Then I went running down to the lodge to hand in my maths. Then I wandered round Cornmarket. I didn't have anything to do, and it was wonderful. And then I went running down to Somerville (it is miles away on the Woodstock Road) for a Politics tute, because a good thing never lasts.

I did, however, watch Firefly - ( Firefly 1x5 - Shindig )

The Politics tute was not as awful as I'd feared, but I didn't get my essay back, so for all I know she's burned it for its crimes against humanity. Afterwards I wandered out in a daze and immediately rang wadiekin, and we went bookshopping and I got to see Hertford, which was fun. Katie's room is really very nice. It has a washing line. I was very much impressed.

And after that, I came sprinting back to college just in time for dinner, and afterwards, Claire and I met at the lodge to go down to the Union. Because, oh-muh-guh, Terry Pratchett was speaking tonight, and as I commented in 0th week, it is worth the membership fee all by itself. We were almost an hour early, but the queue was already stretching out towards Cornmarket. Thankfully they didn't leave us out in the cold too long; we got fairly good seats, and I saw jacinthsong and kuteki and wadiekin came and sat by me and lo, there was squee. And then he came in and there was even more squee!

I never knew he was bald under the hat. I only had a minute to notice this before he started speaking, and it turns out that the author bio in the novels is actually true. He talked about being a journalist and seeing his first dead body, and then becoming a nuclear press officer and starting writing, so the local papers ran headlines: "Nuclear Press Officer Writes Fantasy In His Spare Time". The room giggled collectively. After a couple of minutes he opened the floor for questions.

People asked all sorts of things - I wanted to ask about Neil Gaiman and Good Omens, but someone beat me to it - and he talked about how his own favourite characters include Granny Weatherwax and Tiffany Aching, and he thinks certain characters are fun to write about, like Lord Vetinari and the Librarian, but you couldn't do anything from their POV because it would ruin their appeal. And someone else asked about film adapations, and he went all quiet, and wouldn't talk. "I wish I could tell you," he began, and stopped, and the room burst into giggles again. He did re-tell the story about the producers who liked Mort, "but lose the Death angle!"

Another question, I forget what, got him to talking about how Ankh-Morpork is essentially a modern city with real people. "Not like Tolkien," he said. "There are no condom factories in Minas Tirith!"

I told Claire that I want that on a t-shirt. The only other thing I remember is him talking about the next thing he wants to satirise. He wouldn't give many details, but offered the hint: the inhabitants of the Discworld will shortly begin to learn how to play football. "Only because," he said, "the Librarian would be amazing in goal!"

The last question of all was from potatofiend. How possessive is he about his characters, she wanted to know, and does he know about all these sites on the internet...

"Oh!" he said delightedly. "Slash fic!"

At once, the room divided; half looking confused and the other palpably going still. He doesn't read it, he says; he makes an effort not to it, for fear of being sued. But he doesn't mind its existence.

And then it was over, and Claire and I sprinted across to get into the queue for signing things. I had a good chat with jacinthsong and didn't really notice the queue creeping along; in any case, when we got to the front we were ridiculously idiotic. I got him to sign my Good Omens. "Like the island," he said, when I told him my name, and he spelt it right. He wrote "BURN THIS BOOK" with demon horns on the letters, and signed below. I squeed. And then I handed him clareyperson's copy of Mort. "Clare without an I," I said.

He signed with a flourish, and then Claire handed over Equal Rites. "Claire with an I," she told him. And he wrote "to Claire", with three extra I's, for good measure. Such a nice man. Sonia, Claire's second-year friend, wanted a picture. Pterry said be quick, and we had what I later called a sudden spike of oestrogen, with much clueless dithering. Thankfully the nice man behind took it for us. Therefore, we now have a wonderful picture of Claire, Sonia and me grinning like lunatics while Pterry gives the camera a broad grin and thumbs-up.

I made "squee!" noises all the way home. I mentioned to him that Neil Gaiman would be here on Friday, and he told us to say hi to Neil for him. Heee. My Good Omens is going to be signed by both authors! I may die from squee.

Once back in Balliol, Claire and I thoroughly annoyed Pat by making happy noises all round her room, and after a minute Sky wandered in looking depressed. "Am I gay?" he asked, apropos of nothing.

"Sky, sweetie," I said, with sincere affection, "are you still hung up about your heterosexuality?"

He gave me a glare. "No, of course not. I'm hung up about my homosexuality."

He cheered up soon enough when Pat fed him cookies and we told him about Pterry. He's spent the last week asking everyone in college if they think he's gay. I'd say he's camp but not necessarily gay. I don't know why this is suddenly bothering him, unless it's something to do with Dhruv, whom Sky insists is both a closet homosexual and a closet Indian. Regarding the latter, I've never dared ask.

(The phone just rang, at that point; it was Claire ranting about Greek sculpture, and after a bit I heard the door open and Sky's voice ask, "Am I gay?"

She gave him a cookie and told him to piss off.)

And that's it in the life of me, now. Lots of people are coming to visit during the day, and I'm planning to spend most of the evening in the Social Sciences Library, followed by Staircase 22 Poker Night. The crescendo of work starts after that, so expect the usual wailing and gnashing of teeth. And Firefly, if I can manage it.