stitched

So, I’ve just sent my dissertation to be bound. Everyone’s been telling me how I’ll feel when I give it in – relieved, panicked, ill. But honestly, I just feel sad.

Sad because I’ve loved uni, and because, to me, this feels like the culmination of three years’ work and life and tears and hysterical laughter.

I had my last seminar this morning too, with one of my favourite tutors, and I can’t beat away the feeling that it’s all, well, ending.

It is, I know it is, it’s exam period and I knew it was coming to an end. I just didn’t feel like it was. But somehow, giving in that little pile of paper to be stitched together felt a bit like saying goodbye.

And I’m not ready for that yet.

snobs continued...

So, I'm reading the letters of John Keats for my dissertation and have come across conclusive evidence for my hypothesis that English students and their ilk are indeed incorrigible snobs.

Keats hadn't written to the love of his life as much as much as she would have liked one particular week. What was his excuse?

I have been writing with a vile old pen the whole week, which is excessively ungallant. The fault is in the Quill: I have mended it and still it is very much inclin'd to make blind 'e's.

See, happens to the best of us.

two cinema trips

The first:

Just lovely. Very beautiful film, full of colour and expression. Very sad, but to be expected given the true story, but very delicate and not over-sentimental. Not only that, but heroine is curvy enough to give us all hope of finding a tragic but beautiful Romantic poet out there.



The second:

Feel ashamed to admit it, but I really bloomin' enjoyed this one too. Perhaps not as heart-wrenching and gorgeous, but - I've got to hand it to them - it's certainly compelling. Left the cinema feeling all teen-angsty and as giddy as a 15 year-old, and inevitably in love with a werewolf. £4 well spent, I'd say.