Altruism

I have actually had a really rather nice day. I started it with a good deed. No, I really did. I got out of bed at half eleven, pottered around the kitchen for half an hour, had coffee with Maria, though, ooh, it's nearly twelve. And then a penny somewhere dropped, I went stamping down the corridor and and banged on Claire's door. She appeared, looking sleepily murderous, at which point I yelled, "Your train is in half an hour!"

"Oh," she said.

Approximately twelve minutes later she emerged, delivered very brief hugs all round and disappeared into the distance on Mansfield Road. It's a fifteen-minute walk to the station. I think that counts as my good deed for the day. Closely followed by my doing my laundry, and you might argue that that affects no one but me, but that isn't actually true: I am now so short of clothes that I've spent the last two days wearing a curious combination of my own, Pat's and Ben's clothes. You've reached a whole level of skanky when you're wearing the same clothes three days in a row and they're not even yours. Actually, Ben's hoodie is so nice he's not getting it back, even though it's not a biological necessity any more. And to be fair, the reason for this is the fact that three quarters of my clothes are still up north and, really, who has time to do their laundry every three days? (The hoodie in question is a nice bottle green, advertising "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying", musical with words by Frank Loesser, Thursday to Saturday of fifth at Lincoln, Ben's in it. Okay, pimpery over.)

So, in conclusion, my doing my laundry benefits everyone. And Pat and I also went out on the field to stare disconsolately at the hat, scarf and carrot sitting sadly on a tiny pile of ice. They, too, have gone through a wash cycle, because alas, Carrie the seven-foot snowman is no more. Everything is wet and a bit miserable, but there's green under where the snow was. The Master's Field actually looks almost as pretty without it.

I spent most of the afternoon sitting on jacinthsong's bed, listening to Thea Gilmore and being productive and reading about culture clashes for International Relations, and went to the Pit in the evening. It wasn't its usual debauched self. Probably I just wasn't drunk enough. That said, I am writing this on the wrong side of ginger wine and vodka, but it was an interesting evening rather than being significantly drunken. (The high point, I think, was a resounding chorus about the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking Plain.)

There was the usual toplessness, but I missed most of it, due to spending most of the time wailing on foulds and, indeed, composing impromptu RPF about him. (I think there is video footage of me and hildabeast both staring at the camera, waving our hands and saying, "Bosoms, heaving bosoms!") I think I should probably spend more of my life sitting on jacinthsong's bed, or happily in a corner of the Pit. It was a nice evening, which ended with a two am stroll through the graveyward, and home.

(Wandering up it this afternoon, and back at night, it struck me vaguely that I really do like the Cowley Road. Much as I complain about how I either have to trek to Westgate or to Cowley Road Tesco's if I want such necessities as, er, food, I do like it up there; it always seems to be some sort of bizarre combination between Oxford, the nicer bits of Delhi and Bold Street in Liverpool. You pass shop windows full of wonderful things, avoid people drunkenly having orgasms over cheeseburgers and people talk in Hindi and smile at you as if they know you understand. Anyway, moving on.)

Tomorrow, more productivity, and on Monday I need to go to the Bod, and cannot be allowed to forget, omg, because I've got to do a "Oxford in the 1990s" piece for Cherwell, which cheered me right up because I was under the impression that I wouldn't get to partake in any student journo hackery this term. I like it, because even if Oxford is a bubble, it's my bubble, you know? (And speaking of Cherwell, there's quite a sweet article on the whole this-isn't-the-real-world phenomenon, featuring the ghastly stage of term where you've lapsed entirely into the vernacular. Naturally, I have spent the last five minutes trying to construct a longer and/or more impenetrable example than the one in the article, which is: "I’ve just pidged my battels and done my collection for Hilary, and now I’m off the Bod to read for my first week tute." Answers on a postcard please.)

Anyway, I need to get through this week, and then Pedar will be here again and this time, fingers crossed, I'll actually get to see him. So I can go on living in the bubble for a while. And seeing as how it's three o'clock in the morning and I have to read, oh, everything in the world tomorrow, I should probably go to bed like a diurnal person. G'night, all.