Wednesday morning...

...3 a.m.

Well, okay, it's Thursday morning. But you can't just go playing with the title of a Simon and Garfunkel song, can you?

So, I'm having one of my insomnias. (Mama, if you're reading, don't plotz, I just worked too late or something.) And I've found that one good cure for an insomnia is blogging. Perhaps this is because what I write is so damn boring that it makes me sleepy (cue the complimentary comments, please)... I flatter myself, however, that it is in fact the result of the great mental effort I put into each and every one of these gems of prose which I produce for you, dear Reader.

Anyway. Yesterday (or two days ago, I guess... Tuesday, whatever) I went to see the new James Bond movie with the delightful O. I was, I confess, predisposed to like Daniel Craig, him being tall, blond and craggy.

[Side note: why, if I like tall, blond and craggy men so much in theory, do I always fall for guys who have more in common with Paul Simon than Art Garfunkel? Eh? (I use Paul and Art only as an example of differing physical types: I stress that I do not have any kind of erotic attachment to either of them, fine musicians though they be).]

Where was I? And craggy. Yes. But I was not prepared for exactly how brilliant he would be. Not only does he look bloody good in swimming trunks, for which delight many thanks to the casting director, but he makes Bond into quite a different creature from previous portrayals. Watching this Bond, one suddenly realises exactly how nasty it would be to be a secret agent. Not only the obvious physical hardships (the chair scene... I won't spoil it for you if you've not seen it, but it brought tears even to my eyes), but the crappy unemotionality that's involved. Of course, in some ways it just makes Bond all the more attractive - at least to idiots like me who like the strong, silent, selfish bastard type - but it has so much more pathos than Roger Moore and his rubber eyebrow.

My new flat, despite its marvellous collapsing ceiling, continues to delight. One of the best things is having visitors. Somehow, people just don't like to come and ring the doorbell if you live with housemates. I guess it's the fear of disturbing someone you don't know, having to explain who you are, only to find out that your intended visitee is not in anyway. But people actually visit here. This, to use vernacular, rocks. In a big way.

Did you know that Jim Henson's son is producing Muppet porn? I am so not impressed. As long as he doesn't think of corrupting Sam Eagle, that's all I can say. Oh, and if anyone knows where I can get a stuffed toy of the gorgeous Mr. Eagle, please do let me know. He's so beautiful!

One man's ceiling...

...is another man's floor.

This post is dedicated to JZ. When my friends find out I have a blog, it guilt-trips me into remembering to write something.

So, this week was fun. Apart from teaching, and interviewing, and writing applications, and 'flu, I also had the enlightening experience of the partial collapse of my kitchen ceiling. After working pretty much 10-6 on Tuesday, a rare thing for louche academics like me, I looked forward to returning to the comfort of my flat. Somehow finding the energy to negotiate the stairs, I unlocked the door, and prepared myself for an evening of cooking pie with my friend, E. Upon entering the kitchen, however, I was struck by an unusual sloshing noise underfoot. "How strange", I thought, "Perhaps some rain has come in through the windows". But no, the windows were shut. It was at this juncture that I noticed another unusual feature of the kitchen floor: the tasteful addition of a small but significant amount of rubble. "Gosh", I thought (in a commendably non-blasphemous and non-profane manner), "where on earth did that come from?" I looked upwards, to see if the source of said rubble might be found skywards. Sure enough, a large patch of bare joistwork confirmed that part of the ceiling has lost its battle with gravity and was now gracing my linoleum. Well, I suppose it's like aeroplanes - how do you expect anything that heavy to stay up in the sky? Defies the laws of physics.

I suppose I haven't mentioned my new flat yet, either? I moved in a few weeks ago, after a prolonged conversation with my College (who were landlording me at the time) which could be summarised in this manner:

Me: "Hello. I'm having some trouble with my accommodation"
Them: "Okay, how can we help you?"
Me: "Well, one of my housemates smokes, and as you know I'm badly allergic to cigarette smoke, so I wondered whether you could move me to somewhere non-smoking?"
Them: "Mmm... Yes... Well, nothing's available at the moment, but we'll certainly keep you in mind".
Approximately one year later...
Me: "It's been about a year now. I wondered whether there had been any movement on the non-smoking front?"
Them: "Well, Mmm, Yes, we're still considering it, of course, but you know how demand is for the graduate building, and that's the only non-smoking building in College."
Me: "You do realise that this is making me quite badly ill?"
Them: "Yes... Gosh..."
Approximately three months later...
Me: "Another housemate has now taken up smoking, and she does it right under my windows and with her door open, so the whole house stinks."
Them: "Gosh! What are these young people coming to?"
Me: "I know. Yes. So, my doctor's had to give me new migraine medication and sleeping tablets because of my reaction to the chemicals."
Them: "Goodness, yes. How awful for you."
Me: "So, is there anything that perhaps might be done?"
Them: "Mmm... Well... Yes... No. I don't think so."

So I moved out.

Turned out to be one of the best things I have ever done. For starters, the shower's always free when I want it and the cleaner doesn't wake me up to tell me she simply has to clean my sink. But the best thing is having my own kitchen. No longer, as with housemates, must I put up with other people's mould. No longer, as at home, must I place the forks prong-side upwards in the drainer to prevent my mother from serious mental harm. I can sit in there and bake things to my heart's content, and if I want to leave the washing-up until tomorrow then, goldarn it, I shall.

Am I boring you yet, dear Reader? Indeed, if you have read thus far you deserve a reward. Go and eat yourself a nice chocolate bar.

This fortnight has been a fortnight of New Things. I have, monumentally, discovered grits - a corn-based product, with the texture, perhaps, of porridge, but a wondrous taste that is all its own. I'm hooked. Sadly, they're not readily available in the UK. Internet campaign time, we wonders? I have also dined at high table at Christ Church. Oh yes, dear Reader, I have eaten at Hogwarts. Sadly, they had the magic ceiling turned off. Economising, I suppose. I sang my first ever Tenor solo in the carol service at my church, following on from my wonderful Soprano solo in College the week before. This led one of my dear fellow choristers to ask whether anyone had properly investigated my gender. Not thoroughly enough for my liking, I told him. And I visited the Oxford Internet Institute for the first time. They have, like, a sliding door and a whole electronic "who's in-who's out" system, and computers with three screens, and, oh boy, it was like awesome, dude.

Many other things have happened... but, were I to tell you all about them, you would deserve another chocolate bar. And that would be bad for you, what with Christmas overeating on the horizon anyway. So, goodnight.