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.

Procrastinate now. Don't put it off!

A double bed really is a terrible thing to waste, so here I am, under the quilt, propped up on cushions in a fashion reminiscent of grandpa Joe from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - he only got out of bed for chocolate too. Snuck, stealth-like, down to the kitchen at about 10am to raid my stash for a Fudge bar - only 115 calories and a bit of fat - I reason it's less than a bowl of cereal and therefore a perfectly viable breakfast. One cup of Te Rojo and a glass of Robinsons no added sugar apple & blackcurrant cordial later and my staple dietary requirements for the day are well on the way to being complete. Disaster Management presentation due tomorrow is, however, far from it.

We've had some nice weather recently - 'nice' in the British weather vocabulary meaning 'not wet' and 'above freezing'. It's slightly overcast today but the damn wind has finally blown itself out and all is strangely peaceful. Nothing but the sounds of people mowing their lawns, the birds chattering in the trees and a flock of pigeons flying themselves dizzy in circles round the house. God, I crave summer like a fat kid craves cake. Have been sleeping with the window open the past few nights for the simple fact that I can - finally - without dying of hypothermia in my sleep. Just 3 days of 12 degrees and watery sunshine and already I wake up covered in mosquito bites - god I love scratching them. Reminds me of summer.

Study's not going too well. Somewhere between New Year and now I lost impetus, then interest, and finally the will to live. Okay, so it's not that bad, but this course can be pretty tough when you have nothing and no-one to take your mind off work. (Cue the violins...) I need a hobby, a release of some kind.

In a period of extreme desperation a couple weeks ago I decided to brave the treadmill while the gym was deserted and no-one could see me sweat. Lo-and-behold I discovered not only that I can run (previous attempts had resulted in something verging on heart failure) but that I enjoy it. For a blissful 20 minutes the only thought to cross my mind was where the next lungful of oxygen was coming from - a welcome respite from the usual 'does he, doesn't he?', assignment deadline panic, and job application fear. My personal best is still only 2.5kms in 16.5 mins - I know, herds of turtles have been known to stampede through peanut butter in better time - but I'll improve with practice and the correct motivation, ie. anger, frustration, and chocolate. For those of you who don't know, I was always the kid bringing up the rear in gym class (no, not the chubby asthmatic kid, the one behind him), so this will be no easy journey, but should keep us all entertained nevertheless. Now all I need is the courage to ask one of the on-site army PTIs to help devise a training plan...