Little Gifts.

All three clocks say 11:11, a lucky time according to Skippy - but then what does he know. A lot apparently.

Had our last proper evening together tonight, if together is the right word. He bugs the ass off me. He's pedantic, logical, sensible, predictable. Hasn't a spontaneous bone in his body, runs a mile at questions any more personal than 'can I borrow a pen?'. But he's logical, sensible, driven and all those other things I lack. Being around him 'completes' me in some roundabout way because he's everything I'm not but wish I was. Once again I've left him without asking all the questions that occupy the space in my mind where my thesis should be right now. Maybe I'll send him an email, and then I'll never have to deal with the inevitable pregnant silences and awkward body language that I just can't bear the thought of.

I almost trod on a snail tonight. It was the oddest thing, I just felt the slight crunch beneath my heel and managed to adjust my balance just in time to save him. Good thing too, I hate killing snails. I turn to a barefoot Skippy to warn him about our little mollusk friend. "That's no snail, it's a lizard" he says. He's a pedantic git to the end. Looking closer though I see right next to my little snail there is indeed a little lizard. It's striking for so many reasons, not least for the fact that for once we were both right. Wild lizards are almost unheard of here in England - in fact I've never ever seen one here before - and to see one next to a snail for me just seemed poignant given my strange affection for, nay, fixation with, the two species. Sometimes it's like the world sends me little gifts just when I need them most.

Sounds silly but I think I'm the snail - it's one of the creatures I identify with most, an armour plated mobile home. The lizard is only too apt for Skippy; not meant for this country, and sensible enough to make painful sacrifices when he knows it's for the best. (At least thought to be painful - the tail thing has never been proven, neither has the cutting me loose thing).

I look at it as nature's way of telling me that we're incompatible. Completely different creatures who find themselves at close quarters, despite the fact that the two should never have met. I'm glad we did.

I am Miserable.

Lots of grumbling and sulking.

Smile.

I'm dressing hurredly for a meal with friends. The phone sounds its peculiar warble, muffled by the piles of tried and discarded outfits heaped high on the bed. Hunt around, pick it up, flip it open.

"Smile. You know you want to."

And sure enough I do. I always do when he calls. Bittersweet.

Cookies or cake?

Skippy popped round unannounced today with the ex he went to Paris with. To add insult to injury the curtain pole fell down and hit me on the head as I tried to open the door, and the front door blew the kitchen door shut, locking us out because the handle is broken. Meanwhile a batch of cinamon and maple oatmeal cookies was threatening to catch fire in the oven. To top it off, I was looking fabulous in my jogging bottoms and t-shirt, with no make up and greasy hair. Also reeked of stinky cream of yesterday's post fame. Awesome.

I apologised to the ex for my appearance and mentioned that had I known she was coming I'd have made more of an effort, to which Skippy retorts "oh but don't bother for me then...". He was kidding, but I couldn't resist pointing out that he forfeit that particular priviledge when he decided he 'just needed to be single and selfish at the moment'. God love him but he's getting on my last tattered nerve at the moment.

Cookies are good, though undergoing some kind of identity crisis as to whether they are indeed cookies or cake. I've tried to come up with some witty hi-bred name for them but to no avail...seriously, give it a go, all you get is 'cookies' or 'cake'.

Really must go for a run tomorrow. Have been pretty slack of late.

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!

Four seasons in one day.

The weather is about as stable as a two-legged table today. We've had, sun, rain, sleet, a few flakes and howling wind and it's only just midday. It's all over the place like a mad dog's poop, I tell you. One of the trees at the bottom of the garden is making an ominous creaking sound and leaning a little further in the direction of the house than I'm comfortable with in the strongest gusts, but with a casual shrug I reason that it's not my heap of bricks - and the landlady's a thorn in my ass anyway.

I'm dying to go for a run but it's difficult to gauge what to wear to get there. Running outside is definitely out of the question unless I can be sure of having the wind at my back...I'd have no trouble beating my personal best if I could manage that. Today's one of those days when you practically need to pack a survival kit just to walk to the end of the road: umbrella, jumper, coat, gloves, scarf, hat, tissues, lip balm, sunnies.....the list goes on. Am beginning to wonder if it's worth all the trouble. After all, the proper gym shuts at weekends (squaddie logic, go figure...) so I'm relegated to a tiny room in the mess where they throw all the old equipment that's too worn and shitty to be of any use to anyone serious about exercising. I guess I should feel right at home.

The treadmill is a deathtrap when all is said and done, but it's worth chancing if I can forget Skippy for a half hour and up my distance. Brettus Minimus will be accompanying me as my gym buddy because you can't exercise alone in this gym for safety reasons - whether they're worried about you simply pulling a hamstring or being crushed by dodgy machinery is open to speculation. I feel quite bad about inviting Brett because I know I won't speak a word to him while we're there. I'm still at the stage where I have to concentrate hard on breathing to survive a 20 minute run without a crashteam stepping in, and, to be brutally honest and very mean spirited, I generally run to escape people, not to make polite small talk with them. I'm becoming as crabby and anti-social as my sister, the self professed 'bitch-hermit' extraordinaire. ;)

Just cooked myself a salmon steak. Like all of it's culinary predecessors this week at least half of it met with a sticky end in the bin. It tasted just fine, despite supposedly having gone out of date yesterday (I reason 'no mould, therefore it's all good') but somehow I seem to have developed a powerful aversion to food I've cooked. I even ate at McDonalds yesterday to avoid having to cook, and after my abortive attempt at salmon earlier I reason I may have to order pizza later if I'm to avoid starvation or over-dosing on 'After Eights'. Luckily I already have two dinner invites this week, and Skippy will no doubt have something up his sleeve as it's been over a week since we last ate together. I can probably squeeze a meal out of Nina the housemate too at a push. It's times like these when I miss home the most. What I wouldn't give for a big, juicy steak and home made chips the way Dad does them. I'm missing mother's day too. I wish the train fares were cheaper and work-load was lighter.

Have another 2000 words to bash out about Cuban disaster reduction by tomorrow. Right now all I want to do is curl up and pile up some Zs. Think I might do just that. I'm sure the Cubans can manage just fine without me for now.

What have I done?

If my body is a temple then last night I ransacked the altar and overturned a lot of tables. Drank the sacrificial wine too if the hangover is anything to go by. To make things worse, despite only crawling into bed at 02:30, I've been awake since around 06:00 - alarm call courtesy of my housemate talking to his family in Nigeria. Any louder and he wouldn't have needed the phone.

I'm a disgrace. Last night was only supposed to be dinner and a glass of wine at Kate's - a quiet girly evening to remind me what it's like to be in female company. I spend so much time with guys here that I'll soon be scratching my butt in public and leaving the loo seat up. Anyway, quiet girly evening turned into getting shit-faced drunk and talking about men - one in particular - which is only ever going to end one way. Skippy is in Paris right now with his best friend's girlfriend. Sounds like an issue worthy of an article in 'Take a Break' magazine I know, but if I'm honest it's actually quite innocent. She's nice and there's nothing going on, but I object to the audacity of the girl asking my then boyfriend to go on holiday with her, and even more so to him accepting after turning down my offer and going on to dump me a month later. He got flu two days before the flight and he left for France feeling like death. Karma's a bitch ain't she? Anyway, time to put the voodoo doll down and leave the poor boy alone. He's kind and honest. It's just me who's bitter, twisted and suspicious.

So, aside from getting ashamedly drunk and weaving my way home through an imaginary chicane in the wee hours of the morning, what else did I get up to yesterday? Not an awful lot really. I loafed better than bread itself all day Thursday, leaving it 'til 23:00 to get started on the presentation due the next morning. Somehow I'm gifted with the bizarre knack of pulling projects out of my ass at T minus 2 seconds and getting good grades - yesterday was a shining example. After delivering 8 pages of basic powerpoint and 15 minutes of related dialogue by the seat of my pants, I'm approached by my lecturer and offered a reference should I be considering a PhD - Dr. Warwick...has a kind of kinky ring to it, don't you think?

Eight solid hours in a darkened room watching powerpoint presentations on the sunniest day so far this year had me screaming for a run 10 minutes in though, and run I did - like my usual herd of turtles, admittedly, but the peanut butter's thinning. Settled into my pace really quickly, and instead of my usual lower-lip-sucking-grimace, I ran with a smile on my face. It's not true what they say about 'smile and the world smiles with you', by the way. They just think you're simple. Anyway, did 3kms easily and had to force myself to stop, too much too soon is likely to result in a loud snap and a long spell in A&E, but I'm building steadily by half a Km or so each time. The body-busting combination of having a hangover and being on my euphemisim means the only running I'll be doing today however, is between here and the cupboard where the chocolate is kept. To think I lost 2lbs this week too. That'll be returned with interest by the time I'm done feeding the painters and decorators. I'm stuffing my face with a vanilla slice as I type.

So, if not running, what's on the agenda for the rest of today then? Answer; not much. Have another assignment due Monday, but the fact that I'm blogging rather than slogging suggests I'll be pulling another mammoth all nighter sponsored by Doritos and Cadburys tomorrow. Can't wait. Terrorism module starts Monday and, true to form, the lecturer has managed to spread seventy hours of lectures in such a way that they're going to feel like a hundred and forty...it's going to be a tough couple of months!