Sorry everyone

Claire and I, in a fit of pique, decided to go out into campus, sit on the grass with ice creams and write a song about our landlord.  And his mammary glands. 
Well, after being yelled at for the state of someone elses room, your garden dug up and boxes of your stuff thrown away, you might feel somewhat similar.
Anyway, here is the fruits of our labour:




The man boob song


Written, with affection, for Jeff – the WORST landlord in history.



Sung to the tune of:

“Land of hope and glory”




At first we blamed the hormones,

We thought it was PMS,

But no!  Twas the MAN BOOBS

Fighting on his chest.


On the right was Tracy,

On the left sat Mo,

Came growling from the two MAN BOOBS:

“You are my greatest foe!”



Some say it started with harsh words,

Some think they fought over Jeff

To be the only MAN BOOB

On his womanly chest.



Mo began by slapping

Tracy, who was taken aback,

But this courageous MAN BOOB

Would, by no means, crack.



And so the great war waged on,

Countless lives were lost

Jeff’s brain, ravaged by MAN BOOBS,

Was not the only cost…



Along with common sense,

and all respect for law,

sanity taken by MAN BOOBS,

evened up the score.


So the moral, my dears, is,

Something quite insane

If afflicted by MAN BOOBS

They will steal your brain.




It is now typed up, photocopied, and on noticeboards around campus…

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An interesting basis for a church.

Here in sunny Reading, we have a garden.  In it (up till Friday afternoon), were spinach and stawberry plants, and an awul lot of waist high weeds.  And then one day, a lone potato was found lying nestled into the soil.  Rob found it, and so he is to be known as the herald.
Adam is then told of the potato.  Further research is then undertaken into its past (was it one of mine?  I am the only person who has taken an interest in the garden this year). 
"Not you?  Then IT’S A MIRACLE!" 
And so the miraculous potato came into being. 
Adam, with a firm belief that the Church of England is based on tea, and in fact a hobby for the middle classes, takes it upon himself to spread the word to the sprawling masses.  In short, he becomes the prophet of this new church, based on the humble potato.  And preperations were made for the production of banners to carry aloft around Reading and proclaim the word of the potato.
I alone refused to beleive that the potato was a miracle.  Not that I have anything against potatoes, they are awesome.  They can rest undisturbed under the ground for a few years and grow when the conditions become suitable I argued, but to no avail.  So I became known as the infidel.
On further investigation, it turned out that Kate had tied a potato to the washing line a year or two ago, it had fallen, and now potatoes had grown.  So she is to be known as the mother.  But still, it was, according to Adam, miraculous.
He argued that it was small, whereas the planted potato had been big.  "Well, it’s a new potato, isn’t it?  It would have grown bigger if it had been left in the ground longer".  However, this logic made no impact on the prophet.
He argued once again, that there had been omens fortelling my infidelic behaviour:  the refusal of my phone to charge so I could not spread my blasphemous views, and his buying Claire and I an ice cream each and walking back home together afterwards.  It would all, he says, be written in the book, and when it was published, the world would understand and breathe a sigh of relief.
Alas, the potatoes, spinach, strawberries and weeds are now demolished by the landlord in favour of a lawn.  Hopefuly some offspring of the so called miraculous potato will survive and prosper through it.
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Oooh Ooooh!

Much more wonderful and exciting things have happened this weekend, but this requires no writing, so it gets published first.
Kate, one of my housemates, can do poi.  And fire poi.  And it looks truly awesome.
I can’t.  But they are trying to teach me.  So far I can do the butterfly if I comcentrate hard enough, but the corkscrew is proving harder than it looks.
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Home is lovely.  Although the park is more full of aphids than I remember.
I think there may be some in my hair.
Stephen Poliakoff, Adam, Rob and a CURRY makes for a damn good night in. 
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Signals and Telecomms.  JOY.
And then… hehe, goodness.
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Waning patience

Blasted exams.
I don’t want to have to wait.

Don’t let the teddies and the stamps put you off, i’m normal really.  (YES CLAIRE, I AM)
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Questions for a Thursday.

Are you sitting comfortably?  Then lets begin.
What is it that has made some people stick with their web logs and made others leave them deserted?
If you keep one, why do you do it?
Any answers?  Or any questions? 
I’m afraid any entries I make get more and more banal, but there you have it.
Oooh, and thank you to everyone who has wished me luck for the exams, and woo, good luck for everyone that has exams, tests and anything going on for which they might need luck, or at least someone thinking good things for them.  GO EVERYONE!
And here ends the drivel.  Goodnight dears, sweet dreams!
My brain is dribbling out.  I need a sanity towel.
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