Two lessons learnt today:

Don’t give excuses. Never give excuses. Just say ‘I haven’t/can’t/etc.’ and be mysterious about it.
(P in this evening’s Editpub class.)

Face it! The only consistent feature in all of your dissatisfying relationships is you!
(Facebook status message by R, put up yesterday but I read only now.)


There is this sparkling ball of crystal in my hands that catches the sun at unexpected angles and sends slivers of light into my eyes. I don’t know what to do with it but I’m trying not to drop it, because that will leave shards all over my floor that will sink into my feet and hurt and not sparkle. One day when I can bear to part with it I will give it away, so that it sparkles in another’s hands, because crystal balls are the worst when shattered, and then they are of no use to anyone, and that kinda thing is utter wastage of a harmless, sparkly crystal ball. (The temptation is great — who can hold a fragile, sparkly object in their hands for long enough and not feel the urge to smash it? — but one blow and you’ve had your fun and there are shards on your floor and an absolutely irrepairable crystal ball. This is the wastage. It isn’t worth it.)

This is an important life lesson and should be strictly remembered.


In blog and email shall we trust and renounce everything else. (We shall also occasionally read up other people’s posts on Twitter and Buzz but doubtful if we’ll use the services ourselves.)

We shall wait and watch how long this resolution lasts.


Studying implies five solid nighttime hours of Foucault, or maybe A Room of One’s Own, Carlyle’s crappy tract or Being and Time, which one hopes is not as depressing as that. The term may also be extended to include literary texts one would not be inclined to peruse if they weren’t on syllabus, Bleak House being the prime specimen in this category.

NOT, as it were, hours spent reading I Shall Wear Midnight. (It’s not even such a great book, honestly. Bit of a nostalgic trip. PTerry these days seems to only aim to keep up with his old work. The repetitions in plot and pattern are nearly deliberate and have a comforting quality to them, almost: you know what to expect from a Discworld book, and Pratchett faithfully delivers it. But the last time he made us gasp a little at something utterly brilliant and unexpected was Going Postal.  We feel almost threatened at the prospect of the upcoming Moist von Lipwig book: with each book we like him a little less, and we had been so mindblown by Moist when he had first arrived, by god.)

Anyway, the point of this post is to not be a book review, even surreptitiously behind the excuse of parentheses. This summarises our affinity for studying quite succinctly, however.