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Doctor Who review coming later. I am too tired to think, or indeed form words. Possibly much, much later considering how much work I haven't done today.
But there was a reason for it. I went to London, on a miserably hot bus that broke down every five minutes - literally; the driver had to come skidding to a halt on the hard shoulder of the M40 every so often, which was not fun in thirty-degree heat - but I got there in the end, and saw my parents, and that was wonderful. I don't miss them a lot when I'm away from home, but I do when I've seen them and gone back to Oxford, as I have today. It was lovely to see them. And oh, my, I'm so much the cliché of the indulged only child. But I like to think I don't act like it, and it was nice to be bought lunch and new iPod headphones and not worry about money for a while. (Not that I have to do that much, but I do regardless; I'm grateful for the fact I'm supported as much as I am, and I'd hate to ask for more.) We had lunch in a nice place off Regent Street, and got served intermittently whilst the waiters screeched at Paraguay. It was good.
After that, we went to the Michaelangelo exhibition at the British Museum, and I loved it. But as I said before, I'm too tired to write about it. It was just a lovely day of sunshine and nice things. My mum likes my hair. I find this entirely amazing. But she does!
I got back into Oxford at five to seven, ran from the High Street to Wadham in about seven-and-a-half minutes in time for The Satan Pit, and then wandered back to college to sit on the quad right until it got dark (about eleven) listening to the music emanating from the concert in hall and bemoaning all the work I hadn't done. We need lanterns on the quad, I've decided. That way we really can sit there all night.
But. But none of any of this was the reason I made this entry, as one might have noticed that so far it has not contained a Doctor Who review or an account of the Michaelangelo exhibition. No, the point of this entry is much more bizarre than that. I don't know if anyone reading this has this week's Now magazine - for non-Brits, it's a trashy celebrity gossip magazine, complete fluff. Anyway, there is an article in it about Victoria Beckham, who's talking in somewhat vapid fashion about how she wants a baby girl to follow her three boys, and is willing to go to extreme lengths to make sure it's a girl. Anyway, she's seeking professional advice.
So the magazine, being the public-spirited people they are, have decided to seek said professional advice for her. They've rung up Dr. Something Or Other and got him to give the relevant details about how to conceive a girl, and have published the information in this week's magazine.
But the crucial part? Dr. Something Or Other is MY FATHER. Pedar is in this week's Now magazine. I don't know whether to die of amazement or embarrassment. Ohgod.
But there was a reason for it. I went to London, on a miserably hot bus that broke down every five minutes - literally; the driver had to come skidding to a halt on the hard shoulder of the M40 every so often, which was not fun in thirty-degree heat - but I got there in the end, and saw my parents, and that was wonderful. I don't miss them a lot when I'm away from home, but I do when I've seen them and gone back to Oxford, as I have today. It was lovely to see them. And oh, my, I'm so much the cliché of the indulged only child. But I like to think I don't act like it, and it was nice to be bought lunch and new iPod headphones and not worry about money for a while. (Not that I have to do that much, but I do regardless; I'm grateful for the fact I'm supported as much as I am, and I'd hate to ask for more.) We had lunch in a nice place off Regent Street, and got served intermittently whilst the waiters screeched at Paraguay. It was good.
After that, we went to the Michaelangelo exhibition at the British Museum, and I loved it. But as I said before, I'm too tired to write about it. It was just a lovely day of sunshine and nice things. My mum likes my hair. I find this entirely amazing. But she does!
I got back into Oxford at five to seven, ran from the High Street to Wadham in about seven-and-a-half minutes in time for The Satan Pit, and then wandered back to college to sit on the quad right until it got dark (about eleven) listening to the music emanating from the concert in hall and bemoaning all the work I hadn't done. We need lanterns on the quad, I've decided. That way we really can sit there all night.
But. But none of any of this was the reason I made this entry, as one might have noticed that so far it has not contained a Doctor Who review or an account of the Michaelangelo exhibition. No, the point of this entry is much more bizarre than that. I don't know if anyone reading this has this week's Now magazine - for non-Brits, it's a trashy celebrity gossip magazine, complete fluff. Anyway, there is an article in it about Victoria Beckham, who's talking in somewhat vapid fashion about how she wants a baby girl to follow her three boys, and is willing to go to extreme lengths to make sure it's a girl. Anyway, she's seeking professional advice.
So the magazine, being the public-spirited people they are, have decided to seek said professional advice for her. They've rung up Dr. Something Or Other and got him to give the relevant details about how to conceive a girl, and have published the information in this week's magazine.
But the crucial part? Dr. Something Or Other is MY FATHER. Pedar is in this week's Now magazine. I don't know whether to die of amazement or embarrassment. Ohgod.
