I fear I am becoming Swiss

*sniff* ... [short pause] *sniff, sniiiiff*

I sigh, as loudly as possible, and try my best to concentrate on Chaucer's "The Legend of Good Women". A nano-second later, a mobile phone, supposedly on "silent" then buzzes, moving around the deserted desk as it does so. I watch it, willing it to fall on to the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces, hoping against hope that one of those pieces will ping in the direction of Mr Sniffy, wounding him and thereby necessitating his removal from the Quiet Room.

This is what the Quiet Room does to you. Because, you see, it doesn't exactly do as it says on the tin. Everyone in there is stressed, everyone has different ticks - be it sniffing continuously, tapping one's feet against the desk leg, whispering to oneself as you try to memorise key facts, or, in the case of one of the Quiet Room's perpetual residents, ballroom dancing in the foyer whilst trying to memorise a million and one clutch cards. Yes, Loopy Term has officially arrived. And this year, I'm in the thick of it.

I have already told off several students for talking on their mobiles in the library building, helpfully pointing out the many large signs saying "STRICTLY NO MOBILES IN THIS BUILDING" as I did so. I have also written an email to the Senior Tutor about it. And now I'm getting annoyed with people for sniffing. And it has finally dawned on me - the horror ! the horror! - I am becoming Swiss. It won't be long before I'm telling people off for doing their laundry on a Sunday (I'm tempted to go and have a look in the laundry rooms now, just in case), or tutting at people for laughing too loudly on a bus (it happened, you know). Maybe, like Julie's old concierge, I will start vacuuming the inside of my tumble drier. Maybe I will find the person responsible for setting the trail for the Cambridge Hash House Harriers and tell them they should be ashamed of themselves (it could only have happened to Mad Irish Julie, but happen it did). Or perhaps I will call the police next time the people upstairs play music or laugh. That'll teach them.

I rarely have anything negative to say about Cambridge. But this, my friends, is a cautionary tale: Don't take exams seriously, or it will turn you into a Swiss-German! You have all been warned.

Sponsorship

Having had a couple of enquiries about sponsorship for this year's marathon, I just wanted to let everyone know that, as I got in on the ballot, I chose not to run for charity this year: having harassed my friends and family year after year for sponsorship, I thought it was time to give you all a break!

However, if any of you are feeling generous, you might like to visit this page:

www.justgiving.com/drogers

David was the 22 year old runner who died on Sunday, and his justgiving page is still taking donations in his memory. Hopefully, the many messages and donations will be of some comfort to his poor parents.

All Better Now!

I have finally recovered from Sunday's exertions and am almost walking like a normal person again. I have provided great entertainment for my fellow students over the past few days - with people loitering by staircases in eager anticipation of the sheer joy of being able to see me attempt to walk up or down the stairs.

I am preparing to bid a fond farewell to at least two of my toe-nails. I'm not going to have pretty feet this summer.

Today I managed my first post-marathon run (and this is the quickest I have ever recovered after a marathon - it's usually weeks or months before I can face running again). It was hard work though - three miles on the treadmill was far less enjoyable than 26.2 miles in bright sunshine on Sunday.

I have no photos to show you. The company responsible for photographing all the runners wants £100 for a CD of the photos, or £15 for a single small 6 x 4 copy - beyond the price range of this penniless student. So picture it in your heads instead - I was a lean, mean running machine with my hair in bunches and a spring in my step (that's how I saw myself anyway - the proofs of the pictures tell a different story, alas!).

Nothing else is new in my life. I now live in the Quiet Room at college with my nose permanently in a book, taking breaks only to tell people off for talking on their mobile phones right by the door. All guest blogs will be warmly welcome for the next month!

OOOooh! THIS is what it feels like...!

How I feel at the moment.

Je suis une marathon-runner

Along with about 37,000 other complete nutters yesterday, I did the London marathon. My day started at 6 am when I was woken up by the sun streaming through the bedroom window. By 8.30, when I began my walk to Blackheath, the sun was already really strong and there was not a cloud in the sky. You know me and heat. Not good news.

So I decided to forget any plans of getting a personal best, to enjoy the day for what it was and to walk if necessary. I started off slowly and amazingly was able to run the whole thing. I was wonderfully supported by my husband and friends, who were easily identified by a large penguin on a stick and a Mrs Doyle banner saying "Ah, Go On, BECKY - go on, go on, go on, go on go ooon!". I ran across Tower Bridge with a bunch of convicts, I overtook a giant cupcake and Fred Flintstone, but was most annoyed to finish 10 seconds behind a giant Scooby Doo.

I didn't break any records, but I crossed the line in 4 hours 46 minutes and, amazingly, wasn't one of the 5,000 people who were laid out on stretchers at the end of the course (something of a personal achievement there!).

And, 5 minutes after the end, I turned to Nic and said "Right! Never again! Ok? Just don't let me do that again!'. I decided there and then that the marathon distance is just a bit toooo much on my poor body and that I will now dedicate my running to completing half marathons across the country with my lovely husband, thereby getting to travel around and improve on our times, while not having to give up a large percentage of my spare time to silly amounts of training.

In other news, I have decided to do the Dublin marathon in October. Anyone fancy joining me?

Why she's called "Mad" Irish Julie...

I had a wondrous visit from Mad Irish Julie, who flits in and out of my life like a beautiful exotic butterfly, like Tinkerbell sprinkling fairy-dust and happiness wherever she goes.

Here is her take on Cornwall:

"Oh, I'd looooove, to go to Cornwall. It sounds so wonderful, doesn't it?"

James and I nod in agreement...

".. you know, you just expect it's going to be all cliffs, clear blue skies and bracing breezes..."

James: "But surely you get that in Irleand?"

"Yes, but we don't have clotted cream and surfing. And, besides, you just expect the people in Cornwall to have these beautiful, craggy faces. Oh!! And they'd be wearing white shirts that would billow in the breeze. Can you picture it? Craggy faces and billowing shirts!!! Isn't it fantastic??" [Editor's note: yes, you can hear the multiple exclamation marks when she speaks, you really can.]

I tried to point out that if there was a breeze in Cornwall it would probably be freezing cold, and poeple with craggy faces would be likely to wear a fisherman's sweater, but she would have NONE of it.

"No, no no!! [voice getting slightly hysterical] Fishermen's jumpers can't billow. I need billowing. And for billowing it simply HAS to be a shirt. Billowing in the breeze. Those beautiful men with their craggy faces HAVE to be wearing shirts. I need billowing!!"

So, there you have it. Cornwall in a nutshell, Julie-style. I wonder what books she has been reading?

Chasing Waterfalls

It was a phone call I always knew, deep in my heart, would eventually come. "Hi. Now, I don't want you to worry, but our father has fallen head-first down a waterfall in Scotland.".

And so the list of Dad's exploits continues. Some examples to date:

• Testing for gas by lighting a match. Not once, but three times. One would have thought that, having singed off his body hair (including eyebrows and eye-lashes) once, he would have been more prudent in the future. But apparently not. Boom! And thrice, no less!
  
• A variety of motorcycle accidents that culminated with him being knocked off his bike by a pedestrian, resulting in a broken arm. The pedestrian was unharmed. Mum made him get rid of his motorbike after that.
• Setting fire to a barbecue and himself last summer. He went off to light the (gas) barbecue at the end of the garden, and all mum saw from the kitchen window after that was him running backwards and forwards with buckets of water. He eventually came into the house and announced that we needed a new barbecue.
  
• Various accidents on group walking holidays when I was a child. The general assumption was, that if dad had got left behind, he would eventually emerge either in just his underpants (because he'd fallen in a river) or mopping blood from his head (because he had walked into a tree or something).

Anyway, this time he is really lucky to be alive. His arm is badly broken, in a number of places from wrist to shoulder, because he saw a rock coming towards his face so put his hands out to protect his head. The doctor said the arm was so badly broken, that he would probably no longer be with us if his head had sustained such a beating.

But the question is, will he learn his lesson this time? For someone who has lit that match three times after thinking "is that gas I smell?? Well, there's only one way to find out.." , I suspect not!

Tales from Cambridge Yesteryear: Discoveries

October 2004, Simone and I cycle to our supervisor's flat near the station. I'm still a bit scared of cycling on the roads and am getting used to my new form of transport; Simone cycles like a mad woman - an old habit from being constantly late for work and having to hurry. As afraid as I am of cycling, it's nothing compared to my fear of Medieval supervisions and Cambridge supervisors. We arrive at Charles's house for our first Chaucer supervision. I hesitate before going in, and say to Simone: "I know this is going to sound really thick, but when was Chaucer writing?". She says: "I don't know. No idea". I ask, "Yes, but what century?". Again, she says "I honestly have no idea. Fuck!". I think: how can Cambridge be accused of elitism when it accepts the two of us?

Months later, we are studying Shakespeare. I ring Simone with a remarkable discovery I have made:

Me: Simone! You'll never guess what I've discovered!

Mo: What? Tell me, tell me!

Me: Well, you know the John of Gaunt who was Chaucer's patron, the husband of Blanche, as in Book of the Duchess...?

Mo: Yes?

Me: Well, that's the same John of Gaunt that is in Shakespeare's Richard II!

Mo: NO!! Really? People should be told!

Furthermore, I later realise that the Richard II in Shakespeare's play of the same name is the very same Richard II who was on the throne when Chaucer was writing. Isn't that remarkable? I may get a paper published one day...

In later news: Simone discovers a punctuation mark in an Emily Dickinson poem...

Blogger's Block

It's that time of year. My head is becoming crammed full of tragedy, Chaucer and all things to do with the Novel, and I can think of nothing to put on this little blog of mine. You see, I'm not really doing anything except reading and (rarely) running - hardly great blog fodder. Maybe I should revert to tales from yesteryear, like the time I got kicked out of a very expensive restaurant in London for pretending I worked in the cloak room (I have a warped sense of fun when drunk - I was having a whale of a time and thought I was actually being quite helpful, what with giving out tickets and hanging up people's coats, but the management of the restaurant didn't concur).

I'm not only out of ideas and inspiration but I'm having difficulty remembering words. For example, I've been sat here for hours trying to remember the word 'monopoly' (as in having the monopoly on certain emotions). It has taken the best part of an afternoon and evening to come back to me. And now that I have remembered it, I'm not quite sure how (or indeed, if ) I want to use it. I suppose I'd better, seeing as it took me so long to recollect the damn word. Maybe I'll get it into an argument tomorrow. Argument, anyone? Or should I just play a game of monopoly - would that count? I'd really like £200 for passing go right now, as I am completely broke, and it's definitely time to start expanding my property portfolio... Game of Monopoly, anyone?

Or should I just tell you all about the time I got my handbag stolen in Berne whilst dancing in a water fountain in my underwear? Or about why a certain Embassy bar is now banned from serving Black Russians? Or about the time I pretended to be a nurse and dispensed valuable medical advice when someone fell off a car roof outside a club in Geneva? Or about the time I actually went to a gay bar dressed as a nurse and was a great hit with the lesbians? Or - and this might be far more interesting - shall I just start making stuff up? Mixing the truth with lies, so that you never quite know what happened and what didn't?

Or shall I just fuck off? Maybe I'll just fuck off...

And they called it puppy love...

Twisted Sister

Sophie was listening to the radio yesterday, when what should come along but a song by those tippex-nosed rebels of the 80s, Adam and the Ants. It bought back a childhood memory, possibly one that she has been repressing, and one that is very telling about our relationship many moons ago. She was rather indignant about the whole sorry episode when I spoke to her last night, and I can't say I blame her. Are we sitting comfortably?

Rewind 25 years. You may have to keep your finger on the rewind button for some time, until you arrive at a semi-detached house in suburban Barnehurst in the early 80s. The radio is playing Adam and the Ants, with their meaningless sing-along-a lyrics that are a thinly disguised excuse for the band to don extravagent fancy dress outfits for their video: "Dontchoo ever, dontchoo ever, stop being dandy showing me you're handsome?" (wot?).

At this point, I casually mention to Sophie that I know where Adam Ant lives. Upon further questioning, I reveal that he lives under a rock in our very own back garden. Sophie is doubtful, but I tell her I could quite easily show him to her if she wants to accompany me to the rockery. She does so. I lift up a rock to reveal a few ants, scurrying around, probably singing crap lyrics in very quiet ant-voices. "There" I say, pointing at one of them "That's him". She questions how I know which one was Adam, and I explain: "He's the one who's the most flamboyantly dressed". Then I promptly march back indoors.

Sophie remained slightly sceptical, apparently. But a few days later she went and checked the rock again, and there he was. Flamboyantly-dressed Adam, under his rock just where I said he would be.

I'm not sure how many years later it was that she remembered this incident and realised she had been had.

I was a baaaad older sister in those days. I used to take advantage of her childhood imagination - I also remember telling her that I could transport the bathroom to a range of secret and amazing lands when we were in the bath. I was the only one who was allowed to go to the door and check where we had ended up: well, as the older sister it was my job to protect her, right? And bloody brave I was too - many a time we ended up cowering in the bath from dinonsaurs, giant frogs and two-headed giants. But I always managed to get her back safely for bed-time. Surely that should count for something?