Give us this day our daily... pie??

So I know a chick who has a bit of a liking for Pie Jesu. On purely aurally delighting grounds rather than anything religious or, you know, meaningful I hasten to add. No judgement, each to their own etc...
I know another chick, present at the time the first one was typing Pie Jesu into youtube (as one does. Frequently, I find), whom the phrase 'for somebody who's supposed to be bright...' was probably coined in reference to. She, needless to say, thought that the youtube search was for Jesus pie.
Now there is more sense to this than one may first assume. Although one is definitely more pastry based than the other, they are arguably just as wholesome. And Pie (pronounced pee-ay of course) is most commonly translated as 'sweet'. So it kind of fits, as long as we are thinking of dessert as opposed to the stodgy meat'n'gravy, steak'n'kidney type fare.
God used the male human form to spread the word, inhabiting the flesh, so is it really so much of a leap of conciousness to think of Jesus as a slice of pie? Catholics are always eating the body of Christ after all. Why not make it a delicious American Key Lime pie? Or a French patisserie-style latticed tarte au citron (though perhaps without the criss-cross patterning, ah-hem)? Or a good old traditional apple pie for those Old Testament fundamentalists? Satisfying both the soul and stomach.
We shall, in the end, all receive our just desserts on the day of Judgement, so why not indulge in a bit of spiritual pud in this life, eh?

I Return... Humble, with Great Zeal

Business as usual.

And an education.
After slaving away for God knows how long over Old English poems, certain phrases will be permanently branded onto my conciousness. These, naturally, have been introduced into everyday lingo. Well, the everyday lingo of a posse of geeky English bods.

For the uninitiated, here is a sample of the inspired linguistic nuggets that the ancient tongue is studded with.

Elne Micle: Now this means 'much courage', or as the legendary Marilyn with her effusive Scottish tones prefers, 'great zeal'. It pops up several times throughout one of the poems. At one point it follows on from 'humble', which frankly makes no sense. Humble and zealous at the same time? Such is the paradox of the poem, religion and all that Old English bonkersness. Also follows on from 'he might climb on me' which is blatant innuendo, despite it being the cross of Christ speaking. The phrase can be, and is, added after pretty much any verb. Works equally well in the original language and in modern English. Very versatile.

Snottor: Means a 'wise man'. Who would have thunk it? Amusement-wise it speaks for itself really.

Soaked with the passage of blood: Elevates anything to epic levels.

One a bird carried away, one a grey wolf shared in death, one a sad-faced man concealed in a cave: What, what, what? Yes, men die. Yes, it may have been more dramatic in days of old when they were all warriors and the like. But really?? A sad-faced man? What's that all about?

I was kissing and embracing my liege lord, laying on his knee my hands and my head: Asking for it. Not a jot of subtlety and a great a temptation for English students to exploit.

Collenferth: Means 'stout hearted'. Yet is pronounced Colin Firth. Brilliant. (That Colin does get around in literature, I must say).

Wacwiga: My personal favourite. It means 'weak warrior', but should be used as a term of greeting or endearment in a faux gangsta style. For example, 'Yo, yo, 'sup wacwiga mofo?'. Satisfying to say.

Of course there are many more (as we had to learn the whole bloody things by heart - a slow and tortuous process that caused 'grievous torment', and me to feel 'wounded with defilements' by 'weapons greedy for slaughter'), but these are the real gems and the ones that seem to have infused daily chit-chat most prominently.

So, there you have it. Use them in a sentence today.

I was reading an article about feminism. Now these are Good Things, both feminism and educating myself about it by reading the newspaper.
I am wholly on board with the sentiments and do not shy away from the F-word. I am not afraid of being branded with the whole dungaree/doc marten/man-hating/butch cliche as I know that feminism comes in many forms and that this stereotype is not actually the case of many forward thinking females. I've read Wollstonecraft and Woolf, revere Greer and hold any ambitious, campaigning, strong woman in the highest esteem.
I am also a very bad, bad, shallow, bad person.
There was a picture accompanying the article. It was of a woman holding up a banner in what I would guess as being the 1970's. The banner read 'Judge women as people, not as wives'. What I did not immediately think was 'I hear you sister! Solidarity! A beautiful and universal message that should be acknowledged! Right on!'. What I instead thought was 'I love that woman's headscarf! I wonder if I could arrange my hair like that. And where did she get that fabulous jacket?! Ahh, the seventies was such a cool fashion age!'.
Now this is A Bad Thing. Germaine would be ashamed of me. Must try harder to curb my instinctive habit of concentrating on the aesthetic.
'They may have struggled to get their voices heard, to be treated equally, to have freedom but, damn, they looked good whilst doing so!'. No, Anna, no.

Big Baby

Ahh, glorious Northumberland! The rolling hills! The rural wildernesses! The inevitable regression...

As I sink my feet back into the mud, I sink back into spoilt brattish child mode. I sit sullen as I watch the teenagers crash off to parties and the pub (of which I will be regaled with tales of later), which is arguably more old womanish than baby-like. However, I chuck my rattle out of the pram whenever possible to assert my juvenile deliquency.
Demanding entertainment (with me in charge of viewing options), parents pandering to my every whim (foot massages), slurping whilst eating and getting it all over my face (though this was the case for everybody, as we were eating melon, so I am just about excused), hoping that I'll sleep through the night (in the foetal position, naturally), throwing tantrums in exasperation over the behaviour of others (though often half-mockingly), using expressive noises and nonsense words in place of the articulate speech that evades my unevolved mind. All symptoms of baby behaviour.

It's a shame we no longer have that double buggy affair that we used for the boys. A seat for each bumcheek and I'd be away!

Seductive Sentence

I think this may be the most perfect sentence ever crafted:

'The chauffeur, a Russian czar of the period of Ivan the Terrible, was a self-appointed guide, and the resplendent names - Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo - began to glow through their torpid camouflage, whispering of old kings come here to dine or die, of rajahs tossing Buddahs' eyes to English ballerinas, of Russian princes turning the weeks into Baltic twilights in the lost caviare days.'

What a shame I didn't write it.

Sometimes there is just no beating a bit of purple prose. I am green with envy over the writer's style. It makes me smile, and want to nestle further into the folds of my duvet and the folds of my imagination.

Perhaps that's why Fitzgerald's wife went mad. She was driven so far into her own head, pushed too far into her own imagination by the prose created by her husband, that she could never escape, and thus remained entrapped and caged.

If I start going bonkers, wrestle the book from my hands.

Tally Ho Chaps!

Yes, I may technically be an adult. And yes, I am a student of English literature.

Now that that is taken care of and acknowledged I can proceed to express my outrage. Check this out http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,,2266691,00.html

Incensed? Angered? Provoked? I certainly am. Especially as this piece of heinous sacrilege came to light just a few short days after I was initiated into my very own Famous Five. I was tremendously excited about our explorations, super sleuthing and discovery of smugglers. And of course, returning home in time for Auntie's famous sarnies.
I, due to my strong masculine physique and air of strapping male leadership, am of course Julian. Chloe is the home-maker and super-feminine Anne, destined for the apron and aga. Frances is the tomboy, ultra feminist, bra-burning George. Claudie is Timmy as she is a mad dog. And Gary's Dick.
A secret handshake has yet to be devised, but plans for picnics of ginger beer, potted meat, fishpaste sandwhiches and cream buns are in full sway. And we shall require some villainous thieves to stalk, as well as jumpers in various pastel shades. Jolly times will be had and lashings of good clean fun, followed by afternoon tea.

Except we shall have to try even harder to continue the hallowed traditions old Blytey endeavoured to maintain in polite society so well, now that all this preposterous 'modernisation' seems to be taking place. The sexism, misogyny, mild racism and childhood obesity through artery clogging clotted cream and sticky buns that Enid was such an afficionado of could be in danger.

She would be turning over in her grave if only it wasn't for the likes of us, fearlessly countering the beastliness of the politically correct world. Hurrah! Top hole! Super!

A Reminder of Roots

Browsing in a bookshop in a post-lunch haze of contentment is a simple pleasure but one to be treasured.
Even better when the bookshop is not your run-of-the-mill, generic Waterstones specimen that has tables of Richard and Judy recommendations and is indistinguishable from any other populist book outlet. Staffed by a Bill Bryson look-alike, light and airy, appealingly arranged and with a cafe selling hefty slabs of cake attached - perfection.

The words 'pottering' and 'mooching' were coined specifically for a bookshop experience such as this. Bumping into bookshelves and fellow browsers is commonplace when your head is buried in the first few pages of a book that caught your eye. You forget where you are, and jump when your mother comes up behind you with a query about a paperback she picked from a display. 'Is this that book we...?' But she need not finish her sentence as her daughter has the same book open in her hands, selected from the packed shelf before her, and is a number of pages in. Sometimes a moment can charm and astound. You can remove the girl from her cultural and literary mentors and influencers, but you can't remove the lasting effects.

A quick pit-stop at the comic book/graphic novel emporium and straight on to the British Library! It's a hard life.

Paying for Genetics Through the Nose

What would you get if somebody posessed the face of the Disney Sleeping Beauty's Malefacent, the body of The Princess Bride's Fezzick, the arms of Edward Scissorhands, the mind of Stephen Hawking/Jeremy Paxman and the voice of Alan Rickman? A force to be reckoned with is what. It would be so cool...

Unfortunately I only have the ordinary attributes of a rather pathetic adolescent. Except for one thing that I claim absolutely no responsibility for, something that is independant from my body as a whole and that has a mind of its own.

My nose seems to have a seperate circulatory system, going bright red in complete contrast to the rest of me, and is more akin to a tap than to anything of vaguely human origin. Not to mention its total and ill-judged departure from the general asthetic of my face as a cohesive image. 'Characterful' will not cut it.

I may be forced to cut my nose off to spite my face.

If only anatomy could flatter me. But no, it went and shat on me.

Pessimism Schmessimism

I am sure people don't actually refer to things as 'half empty'. It's more natural terminology to say something is half full surely, as the receptacle will contain at least some kind of substance and is therefore rather more filled than it is if empty. Anyway, I understand that it is a useful way to illustrate the optimist/pessimist distinction. I like to think that I can always see the upside of situations and glean at least something useful or amusing from any unpleasantness that occurs. Take the last couple of days for instance...

The bar at the Union was absolutely packed last night, with people clamouring hotly and sweatily for cheap drinks, slopping beer all over the place and continuously prodding me in the back, which drives me a little bit crrrrrazy. A girl behind me went ahead and ordered her drink before me, despite it being blatant that I had been waiting far longer. Grrr. However, the longer wait did make me notice that there was a young chap sitting right amongst the hullaballoo, pint set down on the bar, sedately and leisurely reading the Guardian obiturary pages. This unexpected image made me smile.

The final of Masterchef has aired, meaning that the series is over and I won't see Greg's bald, cheery noggin or John's jowelly chops until next year. They, and their cries of 'Cooking DOESN'T get tougher than this!' and 'It will CHANGE THEIR LIVES!', have been a pretty much constant source of amusement and chucklesome pleasure over recent weeks. Alas, no more. This does mean that those phrases may actually get out of my head now, and opens up new viewing opportunities, such as the returned 'Love Soup' with the super Tamsin Greig. Or I could do some work.

It turns out no Tattoo parlours in Soho are actually open after 8pm (who knew? Soho obviously not as wild or hardcore as it makes out to be), so it looked like our evening trip had been in vain. Yet we were enlightened as to the exterior decor of sex shops, strip clubs and lingerie boutiques. It was an education of sorts. We saw some pretty neon lights so not a wasted outing.

I sliced my finger whilst trying to prise open a tin of 19p rice pudding without the aid of a tin opener. It hurt a little and bled a lot. However, the result was worth the price of a few pennies and blood. The pudding tasted damn good.

So you see, I'm a glass half full kind of a girl. Of course it helps if the glass is half full of a semi-decent white wine. Or, indeed, completely full.

The Power of Footwear

'I don't need shoes do I? No, I just need jeans. Shoes are not necessary.'

'Mmmm... hmphlf... ynoh... mmm...'

'Okay, ready to go? Yup, I'm all ready to go.'

'Uh? Uh huh... snflph... yup huh... wha ehr...'

*Door shuts.

*30 seconds pass

*Door opens...

Head bowed, 'I felt insecure without shoes.'

A Brief Bloggy Fill-in

Okay, so I was going to launch ito a whole spiel about how if one distills the kaleidescopic sequence and progression of life into pure, isolated, concentrated images that epitomise and validate certain profound notions of positivity and ecstasy, giving meaning to existence, what would pop up in this slide show of lucid, undiluted snapshots.

Then I thought, oh bugger it. I'll just do that boring bloggy thing of compiling a list of Moments of Perfection. It is nice to muse on these things after all. Sweetness and light, sunshine and lollipops etc. So here they are, according to Anna...

Kicking heels off after a long night out dancing.

Drinking peppermint tea out of my huge, clunky Guardian mug whilst watching BBCiplayer.

Being propped up by the Aga, pretending to read and soaking in the conversations that surround.

Splodging and squelching through thick mud. In walking boots or wellies. Up North.

Watching the ballet in the Royal Opera House, blown away by orchestral music and visual oppulence.

Head hitting the pillow after the perfect amount of wine, sending me off into the perfect deep, cosy sleep.

Being swaddled on the perfectly arranged sofa in front of Sunday evening telly.

The Libertines actually being played when I am on the dancefloor.

Ditto Spice Girls.

The cat stretching its paws out and gently stroking my chin in absent minded affection.

The feeling when in the throes of an intense yet exhilerating piece of work.

Guilt free celebrity gossip page reading.

Walking through Regents Park/Bedford square/along Gower Street/through the city in general when the light is perfect and I am preferably holding a takeaway coffee.

I am pleased to admit that these are just the tip of the iceburg really. Now you can have the sick bucket. Finishing one's essay does rather give one a lust for life and appreciation for the finer things I must say.

Road Rage

Travelling by Megabus is like being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Or, indeed, between a Nietzsche reading bespectacled nerd/seasoned back packer and a softly round Indian man who eats bombay mix out of a huge bottomless packet with a spoon, shovelling in mouthful after crunchy mouthful noisily.

The volume of Nietzsche was in another language and the spoon shovelling completely bizarre.

I buried my head in The Guardian Review, transporting myself to a world of straightforward black and white, print and paper.

They were probably thinking 'Who is this scarf-draped, left-wing, pretentious child who is so irritatingly rustling and wrestling with her crumpled paper?'

Such is the way of the Megabus. Best to snore and drool one's way through the ordeal.

Yearning for my Aga: A whistful nod to the North

Wedged in after the indulgence of Christmas, all those New Year's resolutions to not indulge so much, the partying of Superbowl Sunday when everybody over indulges in drink and potato chips as a kind of rear-guard reaction to watching healthy sporty types and surviving a miserable January of failed resolutions, comes Shrove Tuesday.

A day when everything of an indulgent nature should be hoovered up before the abstemious period of Lent. Yet another opportunity to repent and redeem one's wickedly gluttonous ways. Except Valentines Day follows this supposed 'last chance' to indulge, when chocolates, champagne and fancy dinners will abound (for the few lucky ones, at any rate). So basically, there is always an excuse to celebrate, and indulgence is always justifiable.

What is not justifiable, however, is buying a big plastic tub of gloop labelled 'Pancake Mix' from the supermarket in order to create the beloved traditional rounds. Sacred Bleu, I dread to think what those lovely chaps en France would say, who use those clever, flat, batter-scraping devices with such flair and skill to create the thinnest, most delicate and delicious crepes (best eaten when wandering around a sunny square in Normandy I'll have you know). 'Zut alors!' indeed.

One can also get 'Pancake Mix: American Style'. Well, I'll be bound. Those are not pancakes as we know them. Rather skyscrapers of thick, layered carbs, dripping with syrup and, inexplicably, bacon. Pig on a pancake?? Two hands, a knife and fork, thick set jaws, resilient teeth and a constitution that is not susceptible to heart failure are all required to tackle those bad boys. And now you can produce them out of a tub apparently.

No. The way to do them is on an Aga. The only way. With everybody wanting to help and assist. With flushed cheeks and a dash of manic stress. With everybody wanting the first one. Even though the first one is inevitably always a failure. And with major experimentation going on.

Nothing beats the old classic of grated cheese (cheddar preferably) and dollops of ketchup. Squelchy and lip-smackingly disgusting. In the best possible way. This how to do Mardi Gras baby. A Frenchman did once tell me it was 'crepe', but I think our pancakes are actually pretty darn good!
(Geddit? Ahem)

I have bets on J consuming the most, though Father will no doubt give him a run for his money. Raise the ketchup bottle in acknowledgement of my absent self, chaps!

A splash of colour, a flash of culture

In keeping with the previous theme, I have been donning my little red riding hood in recent weeks. Except it is more like my little red, three-quarter-length sleeved, shawl-collared, woolen, vintage coat. With brooch and jaunty scarf. One has to move with the times, doncha know.

Anyhow, there is nothing quite like sauntering or, indeed, moseying about the streets of London in my striking sartorial cocoon, matching the double-decker buses and telephone boxes in A Very British Manner. Tightly belted at the waist, hands plunged in pockets, I am ready to take on any wolf that should happen upon me in the metropolis.

It is a coat made for those impromptu and oh-so cultural outings. Mooching in the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery on a Sunday for example. Glorifying at the gold-flecked embellishments adorning Virgin upon sweet-faced Virgin, Christ upon crucified Christ. Staring agog at the transporting, beautiful, characterful visions that I sometimes fall into within my subconscious. Me defeating the devil, a la St Michael. Me flying with the beautifully dressed angels...

And so must the coat takes me from the Sainsbury Wing to Sainsbury's. But in style.

Glorifying at the lurid chocolate bar wrappers covering biscuit upon crunchy biscuit, caramel finger upon chewy caramel finger. Staring agog as I wait in the megalosaurian queue and try to politely ignore the overly friendly or sinisterly silent staff. This commercial institution holds almost as many wonders as the mystically blue-toned wing of the gallery. Two long custard doughnuts, dusted with icing sugar and bursting with glistening yellow goo, for £1.09 (Why that 9p? Why such an awkward figure? So as to use up all those pesky coppers of course. The genius of these doughnuts knows no bounds) are just one of the gems bejewelling the harsh-lighted cavern.

Gallery to keep my mind intelligent, alert and open in order to be prepared for wily wolf attacks. Supermarket to fill my basket with sustaining goodies to take to 'Granny' (or myself, or poverty stricken students of my acquaintance). Little Red Woolen Coat. That's me.

Dashed Hopes

Frances Hodgeson Burnett may have been wrong. It is possible that not all girls are actually princesses.

This has come as a short, sharp shock, especially to one who's favourite Disney is Sleeping Beauty, has been classically trained in the art of the curtsey, and is in possession of a tiara.

But I break this sad news after the discovery of something horrible beyond measure: I was sitting on a pea throughout a whole dinner without realising.

Princesses are supposed to be able to detect peas through mountains of mattresses. Yet this one was actually affixed to my derriere and I was none the wiser. I bow my head in shame; I am obviously without the credentials to be a true princess. I lack the necessary qualifications. And have a pea stained ass.

So it's back to the land of peasants and plebs I go, working my weary way out of the fairytale. I may have to consider being a bloodthirsty warrior or woodland sprite instead.

Literary Links

On hearing that well-known nightclub venue 'Tiger Tiger' being mentioned on the peripheries of my aural awareness, a dialogue began between a well-read, philosophical chap and myself. He mused that there should be William Blake themed cocktails available at such a nightclub. Naturally, thought I. But what would these drinks consist of?

After applying my mind, I have come up with one or two ideas. Squid ink (of the sought sometimes used in posh spaghetti) could be used as a mixer, signifying all the ink spilt on Blake's poetry and beautiful drawings and pictures. Another ingredient would have to be communion wine, representing the heavily religious aspects and overtones of all his works. It may not taste particularly delicious, but it would be intellectually nourishing.

It was then said (and I would like to stress that this remark was not made by me. Heavily stress) that Rudyard Kipling themed drinks would contain the blood of natives and have to be drunk from a rhino horn, or hollowed out talon of some sort.

This then lead me to other literary links along this line of thought. For instance, Tolstoy is apparently 'fat' in Russian (information courtesy of The Guardian) which takes a little away from the romanticiam of the figure, I find. Also, something that I retained when reading Rousseau's Confessions was that he was keen to see the Gentlemen of Spoon. These were a group of Catholic noblemen who in 1527 swore to eat the people of Geneva 'with a spoon' (a little like the Sheriff of Nottingham's suggestion in regards to the practical matters of eating Robin Hood's heart) and wore spoons round their necks to remind them of this oath. I think this is brilliant. Apart from the cannibalism of course.

Although not in keeping with the theme, another thing that I was captured by in that particular text was that a woman of Rousseau's acquaintance, Madame de Vercellis, broke wind when on her death bed, then pronounced 'Good, a woman who can fart is not dead'. These were her final words. Rousseau commented that she died like a philosopher.

Heard the one about Herod?

You may be forgiven for thinking that I had been abducted by aliens in recent weeks due to lack of postage on the old blog. In actuality, I narrowly missed such a fate. It so happens that a certain motor-savvy friend of mine has an amazing automobile (which goes by the name of Pablo incidentally) in possession of properties associated with alien life forms. It has, no word of a lie, windscreen wipers that sound exactly like Daleks.

When the rain falls it is like a Dalek attack. Much more exciting than any Christmas edition of Dr Who. Even though they managed to blag an appearance from Kylie this year.

So, after avoiding being 'exterminated' in my near death experience with aliens and wild driving in the Northumberland countryside, I thought I should kick off this new year we have stumbled into on the blogosphere. Make it official like.

I shall start this year, however, with a glance to the past. The dim and distant past. A past so far back in history that the word 'blog' would no doubt have met with a chorus of 'Bless you!' if uttered in public. Picture the scene...

A nativity play narrated by adults, with a troupe of adorable children miming the traditional tale. Heart warming and comforting, with bevvies of rosy-cheeked angels and shepherds with stuffed sheep and tea-towels on their heads. Then, behold! A figure of terror. A figure of impressive gravitas. A figure of creative ingenuity in regards to make-up application. My six-year-old mother as Herod.

I love that she is playing, of all the characters that populate the sacred and holy story of Christ's birth, the murderous baddie. One of the cruelest figures in history in fact. And, on all accounts, with great aplomb. Apparently nobody realised it was dear little carrot-top Christine. She could have been a star! We could be living the high life in Hollywood right now. Instead, of course, she took to all the make-up and costume and organisation and creativity of it all. Dash that controlling community spirit of hers! If only she had a more selfish prima donna streak. Fame and fortune would have surely beckoned.

Stories of the past are often fabulously entertaining in retrospect (even from a renowned less-than-sparkling teller of tedious anecdotes) and no doubt, when looking back on the year that is currently laid out before us, there will be many a funny fable to reminisce over. As well as embarrassing hairstyles, outfits and pictures documenting all our monumental mistakes. Bring it on I say.

Kitschmas

Ok, Question (as our American friends tend to say, causing a hush as everyone pricks up their ears in anticipation of the seriousness that will inevitably follow). Ok, Question...

Is red lipstick, especially at this time of year, a glamourous and celebratory statement of charming self expression? Or is it just a little too 'Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree... for me'?

Also, is it sophisticatedly bohemian or, frankly, a tad slovenly to leave smeared red lipstick marks on the edge of a glass, slowly hardening and staining just like the dark wine dregs?

Is it too much? Or is anything less not enough? Or is it too much in a good way?

Exquisite and flawless or garish and clown-like?

Such are the dilemmas of the season. There is a fine line between style and tack.

Anyhow, I shall take inspiration from such screen sirens as Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, flash and brash with scarlet smackers. One of Santa's reindeer is named Vixen after all.

And So It Begins...

Floating within a sea of seminars, lectures, pub trips, work avoidance and Sex and the City watching, it's miraculous if I know the hour, let alone day or date. So, lo and behold, on realising it was December 1st I was knocked for six.

Without the bickering and hoo-ha that accompanies every December evening, heralding the doling out of story and sweets from the lovingly created home-made Advent Calendar, I knew not how to cope with the onset of the merry month. In a civilised manner, one supposes.

Or, indeed, with the greatest concoction known to man (or, more likely than not, woman). Mulled wine is quite simply the most delicious, comforting, Christmassy thing. Ever. Even Sainsbury's own brand. And especially at a student halls party, prison cell walls bedecked with mistletoe, baubles, and splattered orange pulp from the steaming pan.

Warm, spicy, alcoholic. The Holy Grail is said to be a cup. I could understand all the fracas and tintamar surrounding this cup of contention if what it contained was the divine brew of the sweetly mulled grape.

Following this celebratory start to frolicking festivities, Christmas is coming thick and fast. A family roast dinner, complete with evergreen foliage and red berry table adornment, a bag of marrons glacees (brought back by B from Rome no less) consumed after midnight, a diary filling up with jolly occasions. And that is just the beginning. It all starts again when I hit Hexham baby.

Observations from my anthropological study of Intercollegiate Halls life:-

The words Chav and Essex are considered profanities of the highest order and are used in reference to others at one's own risk.

Americans need clarifications, such as the DTR system. There is none of that very British timidity and reluctance to actually verbalise what the hell is going on. Define The Relationship is a common and useful part of their culture. E.g 'We need to do some DTR-ing'.

Sporty Irish lads can eat veritable mountains of food. It is a marvel to behold.

Philosophers are erudite, articulate, stoners, lovely and laid back, and incomprehensible. They muse on Sartre over starters, Mill over main course and Descartes over dessert.

Characters who are 'allergic to empty glasses', always have an open door and an open bottle of something, who sport berets and can recite Donne off by heart come to be known as Legends.

'Scrubs' is a unifying force.

Queueing has become a social occasion.

Lift smells are a constant source of surprise, revulsion, and mystery and can change hourly.

There is absolutely nobody from Newcastle or beyond. The sole native of Newcastle I have encountered, and indeed the only one residing in the whole of London, lives in different Halls. And he went to RGS so barely counts.

People become nocturnal beings. Body clocks change on entering the accommodation, and it is doubtful they will ever return to normal.