How to catch a fleeting moment without freezing its flight?

Alexandra and Pasha

Easter Sunday with the family at Chatsworth House. Blue skies, good company and a picnic. I'll miss these days when they're gone.

'Mega'bus?

Began my journey home yesterday at 11:30 - arrived at 22:30!! No, I don't live in Jamaica, that's how long it takes to get from Watchfield to Sale if you opt not to use the train. I love Oxford Tube buses, big, clean double deckers with few passengers and lots of leg room. My inner child ran straight upstairs to steal the front seat - sensible side said 'you're toast if you crash', but my inner adventurer reasoned that the vantage point makes it worth the gamble. Windshield was sporting a massive crack from one side to the other but adventurer insisted we 'risk it for a biscuit'. London's gorgeous on a sunny day. Everyone out riding their horses, jogging or chilling in Hyde Park - a small taste of what life would be like if global warming keeps its promises.


Bought a book and an ice-cream sundae which was presented to me in a fire bucket as I waited for my bus transfer at Victoria. Was waiting for the usual sleek, blue double decker Megabus when this turned up. (see pic) 'Pity the poor bastards getting that for their journey' I thought to myself. Hmmm. Four and half hours of being crammed into a little, un-reclinable seat with no leg-room in front of the smelliest, loudest girl on Earth and I was indeed pitying the poor bastards - namely myself. Seemed that the only thing working was the air-con., which had apparently decided to make up for all other short comings by being super-efficient. 20 degrees outside, and we were all wearing coats and scarves.

Was so good to get home to the family and a dinner plate sized slab of aged red meat. Today's Easter Friday, meaning we've decided to exchange choccies 2 days early. Chouchoute, champagne eggs and Reese's peanut butter cups...who needs a man when you've got chocolate?

Alektorophobia...Chicken Phobia??

Chicken for dinner again tonight. Why is it the only affordable meat/poultry not to have been put through a grinder and cut with sawdust? Oh how I burn for a good steak, or lamb chops, pork fillet perhaps...anything but bloody chicken!! Why does it have to be so slimy and whiff faintly of rotten eggs when raw? It's really off-putting trying to eat the damn thing when you're still haunted by the image of bits of it clinging stubbornly to the cutting board. Then bits of it get stuck in the brillo pad and you wind up trying to pick them off with your fingers until there's practically no scourer left...argh! What is this, the chicken's revenge?

Here's a great business venture for anyone interested; a take-away restaurant. I'm not talking McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC...if I wanted to eat giblets I'd buy a can of dog food. I'm talking take-away steak, cooked to your liking with a medley of vegetables and sauteed potatoes; salmon with asparagus and new potatoes; duck a l'orange on a bed of parnsip mash... On nights like tonight when the last thing I can be bothered to do is wrestle a dead chicken in the kitchen I'd pay good money to have someone cook decent, nutritious food for me. I suppose if I were less of a shrew I might have a boyfriend to do that kind of thing like just all the regular frilly girls do, but until I find my Petruccio it's a life of picking chicken off the brillo pad for me it seems. Guess it beats picking some bloke's dirty undercrackers off the bedroom floor everyday.

On the distinctly up-side I shall be going home for Easter on Thursday, where the man in my life - aka Dad - will be cooking up a storm. I'm told we'll be eating out a bit too, and of course there's always that little matter of Easter eggs...Hurrah!! Do I detect Chouchoute chocolates on the horizon? I can picture it now: Hi Mum, Hi Dad. Where's the chocolate?

Will you cook me dinner?

Well readers (reader?), it's been a wild week and I'm a little tired, also a little confused. Calendar says March 21st was the first day of Spring, Daylight Savings Time says it's now officially British summertime. If only we could get winter down to four days too.

Running's taken a bit of a back bench this past seven days I'm afraid. Last time I went, it was like wading through treacle just to get to the gym, and by the time I'd completed 10 minutes on the treadmill I would have sworn that someone had smeared superglue on the soles of my runners...the feet just did not want to pick up! By the time I made it home I was convinced I was going to die, so I collapsed, a miserable heap, into my bed until necessity forced me out of it later that evening.

There have been so many dinner invites this week I don't know where to start. It's an absolute blessing because I'd still sooner eat roadkill than anything prepared by my hands at the moment. Cal and his wife had prepared a vat of chilli con carne and enough apple turnover to feed the five thousand on Wednesday, all to be followed by dangerous amounts of amaretto, sloe wine, sloe gin, and ultimately a slow, and painfully early morning of terrorism lectures the next day.

Luckily our South Korean contingent, Martin, had just been promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel, and therefore traditionally owed us all a slap-up celebratory lunch at the local. In a moment of health inspired madness earlier in the week whilst making my menu choice I had plumped for a salad option, which I truly regretted as I watched everyone else tucking into their 'mega-fat-bastard' curries whilst I nibbled at lettuce leaves and the odd strip of cremated beef.

Not to worry though, Laszlo and his lovely wife more than made up for my stingy lunch with a veritable banquet of Hungarian offerings and, more importantly, Thai Bites, that evening. I ventured to try some dodgy looking Hungarian liqueur that came in a bulbous bottle with a big red cross on the front which, I thought, was rather misleading. A skull and cross bones would have been far more appropriate. It tasted like a Night Nurse flu remedy and should probably have come with the following list of possible side effects; convulsions, vomitting, temporary blindness and, ultimately, loss of consciousness. Needless to say I stuck with good old Bushmills the rest of the evening.

My Dad turned up a half hour or so into the affair. He'd been at a defence industry expo the other side of Oxford for two days and decided to pay me a flying visit on his way back up to the grim North. Ordinarily this would be weird, perhaps even verging on social suicide, but as my Dad is closer than I am in both profession and age group to my friends here on the MSc it actually works out strangely well. It's still rather sad to admit though that he's the only man to turn up to an event here on my arm, despite my having had a boyfriend for most of the Cranfield experience. So much for Skippy. I can't blame those who think I made him up.

Speaking of the Australian wonder, we had dinner at his last night - just the two of us - despite the recent break up. I still find this odd, but the free food is good, and a speck of me is still hopeful he'll change his mind and things will go back to the way they were. Well to be honest, things are the way they were, except now I get a ride home in the evening instead of the following morning. I can't say I understand the logic but I've done all I can do without sacrificing my dignity. Anyway, dinner was good and after a day of nothing but an apple and a slice of chocolate cake I devoured three helpings of Thai curry before collapsing onto the sofa to fall asleep half way through 'Chocolat'. I know, what a vixen. Still, I must have done something right because he popped round unannounced with tin of maple syrup and the hoover this morning. More original than that old 'cup of sugar' chestnut I guess, but it's kind of left me wondering if he's hinting at the state of my carpets. As for the maple syrup...who knows?

Terrorism module is going well. So far we've gleaned that a person's political leanings can be discerned by their facial hair ie. beard = Communist, moustache = fascist, really long beard = terrorist. (Lenin, Hitler, Bin Laden. Need I say more?) It may also interest you to know that one person in every ten can be clinically diagnosed with pyscopathic/sociopathic tendencies. Our lecturer clearly had the time of his life watching us all cast covert glances round the classroom trying to figure out which one of the twelve was bound for the funny farm. I just wonder if he knows what half of them actually do for a living...

My list of things to do doesn't seem to be getting any shorter. Have to jazz up my CV a bit and send it out with a stack of covering letters - my favourite passtime. There's been some recent interest expressed by a couple of people but I'll have to move fast if I'm to capitalise on it. The latest uni assignment is based upon a quote by my dissertation supervisor so I'm going to have to put in some extra hours on that if I'm to convince him I'm any good. The running goal stands at 4km this week, AND I'm supposed to be teaching a Spanish class this Wednesday night (The upside of that is there's a free meal involved). How I'm going to fit it all in around lectures I have no idea. I'm knackered just thinking about it.

Can't wait for Easter. Going home to see the family and am hopeful of Chouchoute chocolates!