I went to see a doctor of philosophy

My favourite thing about having been born at the tail end of the twentieth century is the vast quantity of means of communication available to me. Which is the pretentious way to say that I am somewhat amused at the fact I just dashed off a quick note to Pat, to which she responded by marching down the corridor and yelling through the door, "Stop checking your email and do your reading!"

(In fact, this thought has amused me quite a lot recently. I was in the Bod reading old issues of Cherwell for a short feature this week, and while you expect it in the thirties and forties, it's a little disconcerting to notice adverts and articles in the eighties that say, "For more information, write to [postal address], or visit [college lodge]." They say this place never changes, but life would be so complicated without email. Anyway, I think I digress.)

Reading, reading, ah, reading. I think it's probably obvious that I am not doing my reading right now, I'm posting in my LJ. (Mostly because I know Pat will see me on Google Talk and come and yell at me some more.) I've given up on work for the time being. I feel like I haven't done anything, but I have, I know I have - I've been typing up my notes, so I can say definitively that I've scribbled 1416 words of notes today - and, well, enough. Besides, I'm having tutor issues. For a tute on Monday at ten, I got a reading list this morning. That's unreasonable, right? I am within my rights to be miffed?

Well, within my rights or not, I'm still miffed. See me miff. And right now I'm not in the mood to rush through ridiculous amounts of secondary sources and dash off a not-very-good essay. I have read, not huge amounts, but enough, and I've been good about my Descartes to Kant essays this term. This one can be a vac. essay, I think. I will be very happy indeed when I'm finished with my core papers. Even though PPE adminstrative incompetence (or maybe it's Balliol) strikes again and I was told on Tuesday to pick my remaining options by Thursday. Boooo. After a traumatic session with the ninety-seven-page handbook - it contains such gems as "In PPE it is necessary to cover eight Finals subjects in five tutorial terms" (how reassuring) and, delightfully, "If you would like a change of tutor, say so if it is not embarrassing" - I have decided: Philosophy of Mind and Politics of South Asia for Trinity, and Aesthetics in Michaelmas (all sebastienne's fault), with one left to decide.

Still, I have quite enjoyed the reading for this topic. This afternoon, I got to the end of a chapter and read an anecdote concerning Berkeley's death; apparently, he wrote in his will that he wanted his funeral costs to actually go to the poor in the parish where he died (presumably rather than being used to bury him) and, the secondary author continued, as he died at 7, Holywell Street, the parish in question was St. Cross.

At which point I got up, marched next door and informed Claire and Ben that we were going to find the house Berkeley died in. They were faintly startled but amenable, as I appear to have converted everyone to my fanatical love of the man, and off we went. (Claire appreciates the fact he was born in County Kilkenny, the same part of the world from which she hails.) We walked the length of Holywell, only to find out that Merton have probably knocked no. 7 down at some point since 1753.

The bastards. Much disappointed, I went back home.

I actually wrote all of the above yesterday, and then broke off to go and see "How To Succeed In Business Without Even Trying", the Turl Street Festival musical that Ben is in, which was marvellous. My flatmates and I - and chiasmata, who got dragged along - sat at the back where we couldn't see much but could make little squeaky noises of utter joy whenever Ben came on. The entire thing was very funny and every clever, but I noted that given the audience was fairly tiny - it was in Lincoln's hall - it was a fair bet that everyone in it knew someone in the cast.

We came out afterwards, took turns squishing Ben, and went home to pie. Sort of. Maria tried to make banoffee pie last night. Unfortunately it... well, it sank. It became a sort of heavenly banana-toffee gloop. Nothing deterred, the party reached for their spoons and dug in. This has become the House of Cake recently; in the last three days, the five people who live in this flat have eaten a plum cake, a sponge cake, a cheesecake, a chocolate pudding, and the banoffee heavenly gloop.

(In fact, I think there's the name for the place I've been looking for all this time. The Flat of Cake has a certain ring to it, don't you think?)

chiasmata left pleading tiredness around midnight, and I was going to do the same shortly afterwards, but somehow or other I didn't get around to it. There was vodka in the fridge, along with two bottles of wine and a lot of juice to mix with, and because I was at home in my own kitchen with my own friends and, as such, feeling really very comfortable and loved indeed, I think I proceeded to just get really drunk. Not so drunk I didn't know what was going on, but drunk enough to be liberal with language and happy to babble about life, the universe and everything, and I wasn't the only one. (chiasmata: you just missed a delightful Liyaism. I got back in from seeing you off to find the entire flat in various attitudes of hysteria, and through her gasps Claire managed to reiterate the joke. Apparently Liya had just looked up from her bowl of soup and said thoughtfully, "I think I'm asexually reproducing.")

From there, the conversation descended through three hours of vodka into yet another round of educating Liya in the Ways of the World (this time round: what vibrators are for, why people have them, how they are not Evil or Wrong but just Things People Buy), and for some reason, all things ridiculously girly. Maybe because Ben wasn't there, and it was just all of us, but, I don't know, it was a lot of fun. And at four am I went to bed feeling happy and loved and utterly spannered.

Which of course meant I didn't get up today until half twelve, and then proceeded to not do any work at all, for hours. I went food shopping, cooked dinner, fed jacinthsong with said dinner, ate cake, did not do any work. I don't know where my work ethic is. I must have dropped it somewhere. But right now I'm happily sitting here and writing this, having givem up entirely on the day; it's not going to happen. I spoke to Pedar and even he said that perhaps not working was a good idea. (How does Oxford do this to you? Make you feel incredibly guilty about being lazy?) But still. I shall be lazy regardless. In about five minutes I'm going to perch on Pat's bed and watch Love Actually, because.

Oh, and before I go, I never wrote about going to see the Indigo Girls, did I? ( cut, because this entry is getting ridiculously long and incoherent )

In fact, fifth week is nearly over. It will be over in one and a half hours from now. Thank god for that. It wasn't only fifth week, I realised; it was my fifth fifth week, and now it's over.